Substance Clad in Shadows
by hollelujahs
Summary: Re-post: AU/AH Bella's only release comes in the form of distantly orbiting the life of Edward Cullen. As with any addiction, however, she's always left wanting more. "Mad is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else." [Ugo Betti]
1. Prologue

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

It starts with a gasp

And ends with a groan

And then he is left

Fingers at the edge Of the mist that escapes

Flying free of his grasp

Flying light and alone

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"Mad," Ugo Betti once said, "is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else."

Thoughtful words from one who wrote of a thoughtful king. He's right I know this.

Of course he's right.

And his rightness means that I—

I—

I am mad.

Stark, barking mad.

Mad enough to strip myself, just for the sake of it, of the world and its expectations.

Mad enough to revel in the minute-to-minute of my existence. Mad enough to be free.

Mad enough to follow.

Mad enough to follow _him_.

I'm mad, but I'm not alone.

Because everyone worships something.

Everyone eats, drinks, dies—

Everyone does.

And there's only one difference between me

and Them:

I've already picked my poison.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	2. Stark, Barking Mad

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

For I have too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

[Robert Frost, "After Apple-Picking"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"How long have you fixated on Mr. Cullen?" Dr. Cope asks benignly.

"Two months, two weeks and four days."

If she's impressed at the quickness with which I respond, she hides it well. Her bland expression is as unremarkable as the earth-toned walls of her office. Why this horrible hue? I wonder. Surely crazy people aren't sent into hysterics by a little splash of color.

"That's a significant amount of time, Isabella."

I smile. "I agree."

She makes a small 'hm' sound in her throat as she writes. A younger me would have wondered what she was scribbling on that notepad, its yellow pages the only object of any color in the office.

"Have you ever approached him? Or followed him?"

"Are you going to report me if I say yes?"

"I can only report you if you're engaging in criminal or harmful behavior," she replies, nonplussed. "Have you engaged in either of those?"

"I haven't," I answer.

Only time will tell if an unspoken 'yet' can apply.

**+.+.+.+**

Rain rubs a steady whisper on the window behind me as I finish typing and sit back, a sigh heaving up from the bottom of my lungs. My pale fingers rest, somnolent and solemn after the steady tattoo they've been making over the previous several minutes.

There is a lot of noise here, people talking over the murmur of other people, but it doesn't bother me. It's all become static. White noise. Elevator music.

He's here, pressed and perfect, his red necktie knotted in a flawless double Windsor, and it's not a stretch to imagine him being dressed by some sort of valet or butler. He exudes money and power and something sad; more than his impeccably tailored suit, his standoffish air sets him apart from everyone else in here.

This is the thirty-seventh time I've seen him here, his consistent addiction to Morningstar coffee bringing him back, weekday after weekday and the occasional Saturday and Sunday in between. I sit, silent, watching from behind my computer as he completes the routine.

This is what I know of his life so far: he has a driver, his name is Cullen, he makes the baristas nervous, and his face remains etched in a permanent, cold frown. It is the look of severe boredom.

I want to know why he is bored, and I don't want the answer to be 'too much money,' but it probably is. I've spent years of my life with people just like him, these American bluebloods, these keepers of the Old Guard, their Mid-Atlantic accents dripping with elegance and elitism. I've heard him order his coffee, the brusque, cultured accent belying his presence in this humble student hang-out. His presence puzzles all of us.

Sometime soon, I'll release my grip on any sort of propriety and I will follow him out of here to see where he goes, what he does. I want to know more about him.

Today, like every other day, I write something with him in mind. And then I watch him leave.

**+.+.+.+**

Crazy.

You're crazy.

I mouth the words in the mirror, watching the way my lips curl back from my teeth in a quasi-sneer. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.

The word is a bell, and I strike it until my ears ring.

_Fetter strong madness in a silken thread..._

Crazy.

No matter how many times the words hit the mirror, I know the truth.

I'm not crazy.

In a mad world only the mad are sane.

And I'm better than sane: I'm free.

I'm free, and the black-and-white of sanity and lunacy have melded into a very agreeable grey, the color of calm. I have decided to stop the struggle, to live, to float, to follow. Waiting for something, some impetus to make me want something more. Something more than him.

Until then, I'll pick the brightest thread in the tapestry and follow it through the threadwork.

Down the rabbit-hole, I go.

**+.++.+.+.++.+**


	3. Rabbit Hole

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?

My friends forsake me like a memory lost.

I am the self-consumer of my woes;

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,

Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.

And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd…

[John Clare, "Written in Northampton County Asylum"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I have a theory that goes like this:

Nothing matters, really.

You can play your part, or not.

You can love, or not.

Either way, you exist.

Either way, you choose.

And I choose solitude.

**+.+.+.+**

My doorman is one of two people I willingly speak to on a routine basis.

"What's my quote today, Ms. Swan?" he asks with a grin.

"'Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men.'"

"Ah," he says appreciatively. "Martin Luther King."

"Junior," I add. "Goodbye, Billy."

**+.+.+.+**

Black suit, blue and silver striped tie.

Kelly the Barista takes his order, and I can't hear what she says but the look on her face tells me there's a problem.

His shoulders tense as she speaks, then he hands her a bill and walks away from the register, leaving her looking after him with a dumbfounded gape. She quickly snaps out of it and his drink is in his hands as he's walking out the door less than a minute later.

"What'd that guy want?" I ask nonchalantly as I buy a bottle of water I have no intention of drinking.

Kelly rolls her eyes, but her coworker grins. "He tried to pay with a hundred dollar bill. She told him we couldn't make change it so he told her to keep it."

I nod, surprised, as I commit this bit of information to memory.

**+.+.+.+**

"Do you ever see your behavior as predatory?" Dr. Cope asks, and I imagine it must take a great deal of effort to keep one's voice so neutral.

"No," is my calm reply.

She frowns, ever so slightly. "Do you understand how it can be perceived as such by others?"

"Yes."

She waits for me to continue, so I do.

"I'm done worrying about others."

"Mmhm. The opinions of other people don't matter to you?"

"Not anymore."

I can sense her shift, straighten. Now we're getting somewhere, she's probably thinking.

"There was a time you cared?"

"Sure."

"What happened to make you stop?"

"Nothing," I sigh.

"Are you sure?"

She asks this skeptically, like I'm a child who's just reported that, yes mom, I did clean my room and may I please go outside now?

"Of course I'm sure."

"Hm."

She begins writing again. I wonder if she ever just makes a grocery list or solves a crossword puzzle—surely no one is interesting enough to merit this much scribbling.

"What are you writing?"

"Does it matter to you what I write?" she asks pointedly.

"No. But I'm curious."

"You're curious? That sounds a bit like caring, to me."

"It isn't," I shrug. "I can be curious without getting attached."

"Alright. Talk about that."

I hate when she does this, like I'm some sort of improv actor who just needs the right line prompt.

"Haven't you ever just wanted to know things?"

"What kinds of things?" she asks patiently.

"All kinds. But sometimes, when you see a person, and you just feel… you just feel this connection to them, and you just want to... watch."

She nods like she understands. "Is this connection mutual?"

"It doesn't have to be. It doesn't matter. What matters is that _you_ feel it. You see that person for a second, or a minute or whatever and you just want… you just want to know _everything_."

"So this fixation… is about getting to know Mr. Cullen?"

"No, it's knowing _about_ him."

"You have no interest in getting to know him, personally?"

"No." I pause. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"It doesn't matter right now," I repeat. "I'm not a predator. I'm not going to— I'm just curious."

She nods, checking her watch. "Right. Well, that's our time. We'll pick back up next week."

I stand to leave when she says my name.

"Yes?"

"Please be careful."

I smile. "I will."

**+.+.+.+**

"Afternoon, Ms. Swan," Billy calls as I come closer. "Rumor has it you got a package today."

"A package?"

I don't get packages.

"Yes, ma'am. What's my quote today?"

"'Worries go down better with soup,'" I respond absently, quickly exhausting the short mental list of people who would have reason or motivation to send me a package.

"Yeah? What kind?"

"I don't know. It's an old Jewish proverb."

"Anyone could have said that. You're getting soft. Tomorrow, I want a real one."

"Sure, Billy."

Several minutes later, I set the package in question on my dining room table. The return address makes me nervous, but I open it anyways, ripping through the packing tape with my key and tearing through packing peanuts until I'm standing in a small puddle of white.

Something rips in my chest, just a little, when I see the contents at the bottom.

The shadow of a memory, sharp enough to stun.

After several moments, I place the package in the coat closet and spend the rest of the evening pushing against the inky tendrils of something threatening to color my soul.

**+.+.+.+**

The notion of following him begins to niggle on the edges of my brain with increasing intensity.

I know his stride, his expression of perpetual ennui, his habit of scratching his forehead as he talks on the phone, and the fact that he occasionally thinks it appropriate to pay for a cup of coffee with a $100 bill.

But what comes after?

Every morning, he walks out the door and climbs into a car that takes him to his life. His real day begins with whatever greets him when he gets out of his Towncar, and I have no idea of what that could be.

This isn't normal, an ethical reflex sometimes reminds me.

It isn't normal, but I watch his elegantly long fingers curve around his coffee cup and my chest swells with something… something that feels like need.

These morning interludes are beginning to no longer be enough. I need more.

**+.+.+.+**

Sometimes I forget what he looks like. My mind's eye sees a straight nose, a strong jaw. A head full of hair and shoulders bolstered by private school posture. The parts, scattered away from their sum and he's almost unreal.

And then, other times, I remember him perfectly.

"Ah," I breathe into the air above my bed, my fingers making tighter and tighter circles around my clit. In my fantasies, he is not bored, he is desperate. He pants my name against me, breathing like a winded racehorse as I clench my thighs around his trim waist.

Bella, he'd grunt. Bella, Bella, Bella.

I want the idea of him inside of me.

**+.+.+.+**

One morning, it happens:

I finally touch him.

Rather, he touches me.

Rather, he crashes into me as he exits through the coffee shop door, much to my dismay. My disappointment is initially two-fold: first, he's here earlier today and that means I've missed my chance to see him; and second, a few drops of his coffee splash onto my white sneaker.

"Pardon me," he says absently, and continues past, oblivious to the stain he's left on my shoe or the blight he's wrought upon my routine.

My reason for sitting in the café today no longer exists and I watch him leave, my fingers twitching restlessly against my thighs.

Cullen's driver holds open the back door of the Towncar, proceeding to shut it firmly as his boss disappears into the belly of the sleek onyx vehicle before looking me up and down. His eyes linger on me for a moment before he walks around to the driver's side. I'm sure he's filed my face away, just in case. That's what I would do.

They're leaving.

It's today, my twitchy fingers tell me.

It's today.

As the limo signals its return into traffic, I'm only half-interested in remaining inconspicuous to Cullen's driver as I hail a cab and utter words I've only heard in reruns of '80s cop shows.

"Follow that car."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	4. Follow the Thread

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

[Edgar Allen Poe, "Alone"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Sharif the Cabdriver is not as enchanted with my mission as I am.

"Boyfriend?" he asks, his eyes flashing meaningfully to the Towncar in front of us.

"Not exactly," I reply. And by 'not exactly,' I mean 'not at all,' but he shrugs and his grimace is easy to ignore as we continue into lower Manhattan.

Several minutes later, the limo stops in front of the Chrysler Building, and Sharif looks at me for direction.

"You stop here?" he asks skeptically, eyeing my worn jeans and pea coat. Not exactly standard attire for a woman following a limo into the heart of the business district.

I pay my fare and am left on a sidewalk between Lexington and Third.

**+.+.+.+**

The gleaming tower's lobby is teeming with tourists and business professionals. There is a loud man in a group several feet away who is informing anyone within earshot that the lobby of this hub of commerce features impressive red Moroccan walls, yellow Siena marble floors, exotic wood detailing on the elevator cabs and a ceiling mural by Edward Trumbull.

The mural, for the record, is of the same building in which we all stand. Thank you, Edward Trumbull.

Redundant wall art aside, I soon spot what I am looking for. The building's floor directory is nestled in a large metallic frame amongst various bits of architecture trivia, and I exit the lobby three facts richer.

First: the Chrysler building is one of the last skyscrapers in the Art Deco style.

Second: the tower's gargoyles depict Chrysler car ornaments and the spire is modeled on a radiator grille.

Third: the sixty-fourth floor of this grand building houses none other than Cullen Associates, L.P.

**+.+.+.+**

Hours later, I read.

Edward A. Cullen, Jr. joined Cullen Associates in 2009 as a Vice President, focusing on mergers and acquisitions, financings, and strategic advisory assignments for companies in the travel, leisure, and hospitality industries. He'd previously held roles as Associate and Analyst at Libra Securities, a boutique investment bank founded by Drexel Burnham Lambert professionals, and also held a previous position at J.P. Morgan in 2001 in the Private Banking Group. He holds a BA from Penn, and an MBA from Columbia.

I process my Google findings whilst reclining listlessly on my sofa, an episode of some talk show blaring obnoxiously in the background. I feel sluggish and drunk on the facts I've acquired, like a sated constrictor post-ingestion of baby elephant.

I know more now. I wonder what I'll feel when I see him again.

**+.+.+.+**

Grey suit, lavender tie.

I don't approach, but I thrill as I watch him, reveling in the power wrought by knowledge that no one else in here has. I know now where he works, what he does, where he's been. I'm moving through the concentric circles that constitute what's made him who he is, every bit of minutiae I acquire painting brushstrokes on the mental portrait I've created. I know where he goes when he leaves here each day.

Knowledge is all I have.

I can't wait to have more.

**+.+.+.+**

Dr. Cope's neutral expression is beginning to look more like a frown, but at least this way I don't have to see her toothy, coffee-stained smile.

"What is it about this man that fascinates you, Isabella?"

He's a shiny new toy, I want to say.

He's a mechanical engine I want to take apart to study, I want to say.

He's the brightest thread I see, I want to say.

Instead, I tell her that I don't know and prepare myself for more questions that I will not answer.

**+.+.+.+**

You're really weird, my roommate at Phillips Academy Andover told me on several different occasions. It was funny, then.

Contrary to what Dr. Cope keeps trying to infer, nothing tragic has happened to me. I'm not sick, and I'm not sad. I have friends of the college sort, the kind that tracked me on Facebook and sent me the occasional message before I deleted my account.

Now, somewhere in cyber-space, there are un-tagged photos of me at school, in theaters, in bars and at intramural volleyball games. There are pictures of me laughing, talking, smiling and dancing. There are pictures of me with friends and roommates, and even a few with my parents.

I had a life, once.

In the end, though, it's easier

to just let it all go.

I remember my roommate's words now, as I stand on my balcony in nothing but my underwear and a smile, quivering and shivering and inviting the world to look and look away. Nothing but their stares can touch me, and this is the best place to remember that.

My knees are knocking, and I know this – what I'm doing – isn't normal. I know.

I'm free of normal.

**+.+.+.+**

Black suit, white shirt, no tie.

He's on his phone today. He looks frazzled.

"Yes, of course I'll be there," he snaps. "We both will. I'm leaving work early today to get ready."

Temper, temper, I muse.

Beyond that, I hear him utter words like "Harvard Club," "bootleg" and "cocktail hour."

A quick Google search and one credit card payment later, I'm on my way out the door, hoping there's enough time to ransack the vintage store on West Twenty-Fifth Street.

For the first time in a long time, I have something resembling a plan.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	5. From Afar, But Closer

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;

Worthless as withered weeds,

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by thine infinity;

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of immortality.

[Emily Brontë, "Last Lines"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"Lookin' good, Ms. Swan," Billy says appreciatively, giving a short whistle.

"Thank you, Billy."

"What's my quote?"

"'_One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time._'"

"That's nice. Real nice. Who said it?"

"André Gide."

"Uh huh. You gonna tell me who that is?"

"He's a Nobel Prize-winning writer."

"A writer? Anything I'd know."

"No, Billy."

"Figures. Have a good night, Ms. Swan."

**+.+.+.+**

The 2011 Limbs for Life "Bootleg Ball" has overtaken the Harvard Club with ornate floral arrangements and battalions of wineglasses. The event page explained the 1920s theme, but I'm still taken aback when I enter the main dining room to find my seat. It looks like a nausea-inducing retread of the world of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

My last-minute ticket purchase has guaranteed me a seat at one of the back tables, my chair sandwiched between a blond glamazon in her twenties and a middle-aged Jewish couple from Ithaca.

Blondie is sipping her water anxiously, her eyes constantly darting between her hands and the entrance. Her red flapper dress and headband look stunning, if a little cheap. I'm not interested in making friends, but she's the closest thing to a dinner companion I'm going to have, and blonds are always good for some gossip.

"I'm Bella."

She looks away from the door, her eyes whipping up and down my frame in a millisecond. I can tell she's already formed an opinion by the time it takes for her to open her mouth and say, "Rosalie Hale."

The name rings a faint bell, though I cannot place where I've heard it. "Do you come to these events often?"

Her eyes complete another circuit from her manicure to the door before she nods. "Yes."

She's obviously uninterested in conversation, which perversely makes me want to keep talking. "Is the food that good?" I ask dryly. If I really wanted to know, I'd ask someone who looked like they'd eaten recently.

Rosalie Hale looks at me again, her heavily-made up gaze assessing my face too long to be comfortable, and I'm fighting the urge to squirm when she finally grins, her red lips parting in a sharkish smile.

"No, But the fishing is," she replies bluntly.

It only takes me a moment of looking around at tailored suits and unadorned male ring fingers to understand exactly what she means by 'fishing.' Between the sultry sound of her voice and the length of the legs she keeps crossing and uncrossing, I would bet money on her landing a bona fide marlin.

"What about you?" she asks, the question belied by the disinterest in her tone.

"A friend of mine is here," I tell her.

That earns me a lift of one delicately arched brow. "A friend…?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Edward Cullen."

"Uh huh," she half-snorts. It's the most human thing she's done so far.

"You don't believe me?"

She rolls her eyes. "Last I checked, Edward already has a date. And trust me, his 'friends' don't sit back here in the cheap seats."

"You know him?"

Her eyes glaze into something like cobalt, cold and blue and hard. "We've met," is her icy response.

I'm about to unleash the first of a barrage of questions when Rosalie's expression shifts into the kind of smile only a pageant mother could love. "Shit," she mutters through clenched teeth.

"Rosalie!" I hear someone exclaim. Someone who, I see as she approaches our table, is just as blond and scary as Rosalie Hale beside me.

"Lauren," Rosalie greets, standing and exchanging air kisses. "So good to see you."

"You look wonderful," Lauren gushes, eyeing Rosalie's red fringed flapper dress. "Is this that Lanvin we saw last Spring?"

"It is."

"I love it. You're a vision."

"Likewise," Rosalie answers airily. "Speaking of visions, is Alice here? I'd love to see who she's wearing."

Lauren's perfect face freezes for a split second before morphing back into her own pageant smile. So many teeth. "She's wearing Givenchy. But I don't think she's come in yet."

"Lovely. I'm sure I'll see her."

I'm distracted from the beauty queens by the small entourage of people entering the dining room. Not everyone stops in their tracks to appreciate the entrance, but I'm one of many that do. The sequined flapper dresses and jewelry make them all seem to glitter in the candlelight, and besides that, everyone in this cluster of wealth is Very Attractive.

Including Edward Cullen.

"There's your buddy," Rosalie mutters, taking me off guard. I hadn't noticed her take her seat again. "How'd you say you two know each other?"

"I didn't."

She gives me another long look and a smile that I don't understand before she tosses back the rest of her drink and waves to the people she knows.

**+.+.+.+**

The benefit is well enough as these things go, I suppose. I can close my eyes at any given moment and re-live one of a hundred such fundraisers I'd attended over the years. The food is delicious.

It isn't until the dancing starts that my prospects begin to unfold. I haven't moved from my seat since the fundraiser began, but the bar on the far side of the room suddenly catches my attention. For the first time since he came in, I see him.

Black tie, black suit.

Black expression.

He is leaning against the bar with his back to the room, and this could be my chance.

**+.+.+.+**

The para-celebrity DJ is starting to get into the swing of things, and I have to shout over a droning bass line to be heard.

"A White Russian, please."

I order assertively, ignoring the fact that there are only four inches between the forearms of me and Edward Cullen.

He doesn't seem to notice, though, continuing to examine the ice cubes in his glass like they're giving him a rundown of the Bull and the Bear.

"Rough day?" I ask, like speaking to him isn't something I've devoted countless moments of planning. Predatory, Dr. Cope would say.

He looks up, confusion and surprise wrinkling his forehead. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you're having a bad day. You're frowning."

His frown deepens. "Sorry, have we met?"

"I'm Bella."

"Bella." He seems to roll the name around in his mouth, testing it for hints of familiarity. "Who are you here with?"

"I came alone."

His expression is meant to convey understanding, but I can still read the underlying confusion. "Is this a charity you're involved with?"

"Not really, no."

He pauses, perhaps trying to discern whether I truly standoffish or just a challenged conversationalist. "You from the city?"

I shake my head. "Seattle."

"Have you been here long?"

"About four months."

We stare for a moment, his handsome face politely befuddled. "I'm sorry," he says eventually. "I'm having a difficult time placing you."

"That's understandable. We've never met before."

"Oh." He smiles awkwardly, visibly vacillating between self-deprecation and mild distress. "Of course."

"Are _you_ here alone?"

"Yes. Well, no."

"Which is it?"

He at least as the grace to look sheepish. "I'm here with a friend."

"A friend?"

"Tanya Denault."

"Mm."

"Do you know her?"

"Only by reputation. She's very beautiful."

"Yes, she is."

"The two of you make a striking couple."

He looks uneasy for a moment before muttering a quiet, "Thank you." His gaze moves down my body, taking in the dark grey flapper dress with its ivory fringe. "You're beautiful, too," he adds casually.

"Thank you."

More staring, more silence. He isn't much of a talker, but that's okay. Neither am I.

He looks away first, his eyes glancing down to my now-empty glass. "Another one?"

"Please."

He gestures to the bartender for refills, the space between us slowly disappearing.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

The more he drinks, the more he talks, and the more he talks, the more I can hear what sounds like an English accent leaking through some of his words. I file this away with the million other little things I'm learning about him with each passing second. Scotch, it seems, is the next best thing to truth serum.

Not that I've had to coerce him; the glitterati that found him before his third drink proceeded to surround us, and I've been silently absorbed into a drunken clique of twenty- and thirty-somethings with money to burn and too much to drink.

I am now sitting at an abandoned table with the group that orbits Edward Cullen, listening to all those drunk or desperate enough to talk over the music.

Including Edward.

"You remind me of a girl I knew back home," he slurs, smiling as he leans into me from his chair. I smile back.

"Do I?"

"Yeah, whasshername. JASPER!" he shouts to a blond man across the table.

"What?" He-who-is-Jasper grouses drunkenly.

"What was—what was that little girl's name we played with?"

"What?"

"That little girl in London!"

"I can't hear you," Jasper yells.

"Whatever." He turns back to me, shrugging. "She was pretty."

"Was she?"

"Yeah. Dark hair, dark eyes, white skin. She looked like a doll."

"Sounds lovely."

His stare is unnerving. "She was okay. _You're_ lovely. Lovely Bella."

"Thank you."

"Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella," he rambles.

"You're drunk," I laugh lightly.

"So? Go somewhere with me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. The bathroom. My car." He leans closer, his hot breath fanning over my shoulder. "Anywhere," he repeats.

"Hm. And what would we do there?"

His head comes up, eyes burning blearily into my own. "I'd—we'd do—I'd fuck you, Bella."

"Would you?"

His face falls back into the crook of my neck. "Mmhm," he mumbles. I can feel him speaking against my skin.

"I can't hear you."

"I said," he sloppily scream-whispers into my ear. "You look delicious. I could eat you up."

"You're too kind."

"Not kind, Bella," he sighs, all drunken arousal and exasperation. "Look." My eyes follow his hand to where it gestures to his lap. It's too dark to see anything, but I'm fairly certain what he's trying to say.

"What?" I ask innocently.

"This," he growls, grabbing my hand and placing it on his semi-erect cock.

After a millisecond of hesitation, I flex my fingers experimentally and he makes a small sound against my neck.

"Again," he commands.

I acquiesce, squeezing him, feeling him harden through his trousers. My lips stretch into a smile as he begins to pant against me and I feel powerful, to hold this man in my hand, to make him hard, to know so much—

"Edward?"

He's imbibed enough not to react right away, but I've only had two drinks and my hand quickly moves out of his lap as a blonde, beautiful, infuriated-looking Tanya Denault moves closer to where he's half-sitting, half-leaning against my shoulder.

"Tan," he greets with a groan. "The fuck time is it?"

"Time to go," she snaps. "The car's here."

"Then we're all going," he yells over the music, moving his hand to my thigh. "Bella, too."

"Absolutely not. Come on, Edward."

"Bella—" he begins.

"Shut up and get your jacket," she commands harshly, turning to me as he reluctantly stands to obey. She turns to me, irritation evident in her features. "Bella? Is that your name?"

I nod.

"Great. Your time's up, Bella. Goodnight."

**+.+.+.+**

Sleep does not come easy, no matter how I adjust my pillows or my posture.

Follow the thread, I tell myself. Find out more. Down the rabbit hole.

I can almost taste the forming addiction, the acid taste of it on the back of my tongue. It's happened: I've been on his radar. I've touched him. He's touched me back. He's said my name.

_More_, every one of my heartbeats thrums desperately. _More more more_.

Fingers twitching against the counterpane, I wonder how to gain what my pulse demands.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	6. Those Who Doubt

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I stood musing in a black world,

Not knowing where to direct my feet.

And I saw the quick stream of men

Pouring ceaselessly,

Filled with eager faces,

A torrent of desire.

I called to them,

"Where do you go? What do you see?"

A thousand voices called to me.

A thousand fingers pointed.

"Look! look! There!"

…

And at the blindness of my spirit

They screamed,

"Fool! fool! fool!"

[Stephen Crane, "I Stood Musing In A Black World"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"You mustn't touch things that aren't yours," my mother told me.

"Be content with what you have. There are others less fortunate," My father would say.

And I listened and nodded and dressed like a good, good girl.

But time marched on, dragging us behind it and I began to realize that Mother knew she could afford to live by her rule, because money bought her everything.

Father knew it as well; he bought Mother.

I watched my parents watch me grow up, pride and joy disintegrating into disgust and bewilderment as they realized that their Park Avenue Princess – their good, good girl – could be so very cold.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I do not see Edward Cullen again until the Monday after the fundraiser, until he comes into Morningstar looking starched and clean and untouched by my hands.

I don't like it, but I swallow and focus.

Navy suit, cobalt tie.

He orders, oblivious to me. This is when my invisibility begins to rankle.

I keep my head down as he exits, silently willing his eye to catch my form and remember. Remember something.

Look at me, I scream via telepathy, my pulse thudding a bass line in my ears.

The ringing of the bell above the exit informs me that I will need to be more patient.

**+.+.+.+**

"Morning, Ms. Swan."

"Good morning, Billy."

"I got one for you," he announces with a grin.

"Okay."

"'_Do what you can, with what you have, where you are._'"

I sigh, quickly racking my brain. "Franklin Roosevelt?"

"Theodore," he crows, amused at my mistake. "Better luck next time, right?"

**+.+.+.+**

Black suit with grey pinstripes, light pink tie. Walk in, walk out, oblivious to the way my hands curl around my coffee mug like talons that need to tear through something. He's too far away.

I remain unseen.

**+.+.+.+**

"Isabella," Dr. Cope begins gravely.

Annoyed, I brace myself for the forthcoming lecture. She does not disappoint.

She says things like "fear of intimacy" and "unhealthy fixation" and, the old failsafe, "predatory behavior."

She gives me suggestions to distract myself. Yoga. Photography. A job.

I tell her yes, of course I'll consider those things, before leaving, heaving a sigh of something like relief.

**+.+.+.+**

Grey suit, light green tie.

I look up as he leaves and even manage to catch his eye, but still, he does not stop.

Patience, I remind myself. I've been here before, and experience has been a merciless teacher. Acting rashly ruins everything.

Patience.

**+.+.+.+**

Sometimes of dream of him. And then I dream of other things.

"You're not normal."

Black smoke words, wispy twisting, curling and twirling until its tendrils are ropes wrapped around my wrists, pulling me back into a day long gone. Everything is dismal, just like it was back then, back when a different man looked me in the face with sad eyes and scowl and whispered words, hateful words that now echo in my sleep.

"You're going to Hell, Bella."

**+.+.+.+**

"What is like to lose your mind?" an old friend asked me once, and he'd been joking.

"It's at least as easy as keeping it," I'd replied, and I'd meant every word.

**+.+.+.+**

"So, you spoke to him," Dr. Cope notes disapprovingly, closing my journal.

"I introduced myself."

She levels a look at me that could be described as 'Not Amused.'

"Isabella, do you remember what we talked about regarding this fixation?"

"I remember what _you_ said," I reply evenly.

"I'll say it again: what you're dealing with is typical of an addiction. Your interactions with Mr. Cullen seem to be increasing your sense of power over him, simply because you are able to approach him on your terms."

"You're talking about him like he's a victim."

"How would you define the criteria for being a victim, Isabella?"

"'One who is harmed by another.' I know the definition. I haven't harmed him."

"Do you intend to?"

"Of course not."

"I want you to be aware of the potential legal consequences if you continue to insert yourself into this man's life."

"Are you going to report me?"

She sighs. "Whether or not I report you to someone should not be your biggest concern. Right now, I want us to focus on helping you confront your past."

"I don't see a need for that."

"Then why are you here, Isabella?"

"You know why I'm here," I sigh. "If you've forgotten, call the man who signs your paycheck."

"Your father and I speak regularly, Isabella. I've never made a secret of it. I hope it goes without saying that whatever is said in our sessions remains confidential."

"For now," I retort. "You're forgetting that I've done this before."

Her silences are heavier than her lectures, and this one is no different. For interminable moments, the only sounds I can hear are her breathing and my own even pulse.

"That's our time today," she says finally. "Until next week."

**+.+.+.+**

Tuesday evening.

The walls of my bedroom hem me in, holding up the moldings that stare balefully down at me. Every square inch of this place is a reminder of its transitory quality; it is no more a home to me than the streets outside.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" I ask the walls of my bedroom, annoyed at their ever-present presumption. They're so damn sure I won't knock them down. They're so damn sure they'll get rid of me.

Crazy, they whisper. You're crazy.

"Maybe I am," I snap. "But I'm still in charge. What do you think about that?"

They don't respond.

I make a call.

They're repainted by Thursday.

**+.+.+.+**

It's a Friday morning when his eyes find mine.

Navy suit, burgundy tie.

He's walking back across the Morningstar, heading out for the exit, heading into his day, when by some chance, a whim, a whisper of fate or the tug of the thread that leads me, his eyes flit over one side of the shop before landing on my face. His entire body seems to jolt for a moment, seemingly stunned into immobility by the Ghost of Drunk-Interrupted-Hand-Jobs Past.

He's moving again, and any pretense of being complete strangers is over because I can't look away from him and my lips turn upward as he takes a step and a step and a step, before he's standing in front of my café table.

Nothing really matters, I remind myself, breathing and breathing out. Follow the thread.

"Hi," he begins.

"Hello."

His jaw flexes, like he's trying to mold his next words with the nervous-looking clenching of his teeth. "We know each other, right?" he asks quietly, his customary frown deepened with confusion.

I'm impatient to get past this part, this re-introduction, but manage to answer indifferently: "You tell me."

"The Bootleg Ball. You were there?"

"I was."

"Everything's a little hazy from that night," he chuckles. "But you looked—you look so familiar."

'A little hazy' is a good way to describe the way he's seemed to have forgotten putting my hand on his cock. I add another fact to my collection: Edward Cullen has a gift for understatement. And oblivion.

But I already knew that.

"I was there," I repeat.

"Right. I'm so sorry. Tell me your name again."

"Bella."

He smiles. It looks flirtatious. "Do you have a last name, Bella?"

"I do."

A few seconds pass before it's obvious that I have no plans to fill in any blanks for him. As he realizes this, his smile falls, just a bit. He's so sweet, so polite. So different from the man who'd begged me to meet him out back for a quick fuck. Scotch seems to be his courage of choice.

"Right. I hope I haven't offended you by coming over—"

"Not at all," I assure him calmly. "It's always good to see you."

"Right," he says again.

He's what I'm used to, so his next words don't surprise me.

"Will I see you around again?"

"And where would we see each other?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

He stares at me for a moment. If he were a schoolboy, he'd shuffle his feet. "We'll be at the Chelsea Exhibition at Agora next Thursday."

"I don't have a ticket."

"It's open to the public. All kinds of people will be there."

"All kinds?"

"All kinds," he repeats.

"Well, then. Maybe I'll be one of them."

His answering smile is warm. "I hope so."

He offers me a pleasant goodbye and exits, leaving me mulling over the last few minutes, mulling over the moment I've been waiting for since I watched his limp, drunken form being poured into the limo he'd shared with Tanya Denault for the benefit. I watched them drive away, their taillights disappearing around a corner as I waited for a cab in the dark.

I'm nothing if not a willing satellite, content to orbit the outskirts of him. For now.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	7. Paths to the Past

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Long ago were paths to the past closed,

And what shall I do with past, at all?

What is there? Just washed with blood flat stones,

Or the door, immured in a wall.

Or the echo, that all time me worries,

Tho' I pray it to be silent, hard…

To this echo happened the same story,

That – to one, I bear in my heart.

[Anna Akhmatova, "The Echo"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

It is a bad night.

The judgment cast upon me by my bedroom walls cannot be disguised by a coat of Sherwin Williams or Benjamin Moore or whatever fucking brand those men used when they came to whitewash the whispers with their roller brushes. They might as well have used a sheer gloss for all the good it's done.

Crazy, the walls still whisper.

I cannot sleep, my limps twitching and restless and wanting to go outside.

Let us play, my fingers beg, and I half-heartedly entertain the idea of letting them run down to the junction of my thighs for something, something, something more than this tension that runs the length of my body like a livewire.

It's the box in my coat closet that's causing this disturbance, I'm sure of it.

I can imagine his face as he addressed it, somber and sullen, his flat, dark eyes unfocused as he scrawled my street number and remembered exactly what kind of victim he was.

I'm not sorry, I told him.

And I wasn't.

Guilt is for those who hold on, and I—

I let go, every day.

Not crazy, I breathe into my pillow. Free.

Free.

Free.

You're not normal, Bella.

You're going to Hell, Bella.

Shut up, I tell his voice inside my head. I don't believe in Hell.

I don't believe in anything but Now.

It's all I have.

But his eyes…

They won't let me be.

**+.+.+.+**

I dress carefully for the exhibit, carefully buckling the strap on my Mary Jane stilettos before assessing my appearance in the mirror. The circles beneath my eyes from the restless night before have been disguised with ivory concealer. If I squint, the red of my lips against the paleness of my skin creates the illusion of a Kabuki mask.

I am small, slight and slim in the black Kate Spade tie-waist dress – a gift from Mother that I've worn only one other time.

I wonder what he's wearing.

I wonder what _she's_ wearing.

"_We'll be at the Chelsea Exhibit,"_ he'd said.

Jealousy coils in my gut, a serpent in striking range of the viscous muscle in my chest.

I close my eyes, summoning a vision of him, nude and moving above me, his bare hips stroking the inside of my thighs as he thrusts and thrusts and follows me into release.

_Edward,_ following _me_.

My fingers twitch at the thought, each one separately dreaming of the day they will finally claim the expanse of skin that covers his back and shoulders.

But for now.

But for Now.

I will behave.

I'll be a good, good girl.

**+.+.+.+**

"You going out again?" Billy asks. I'm not offended by the incredulity in his tone.

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, you look good."

"Thank you, Billy. I'm going to an art show."

"It makes me sad to see a pretty lady like you go out alone, Ms. Swan."

"I'm meeting someone there," and it's almost the truth.

"Yeah? He tries anything, you let me know."

"Thank you, Billy."

**+.+.+.+**

The gallery drips of contemporary pretention, all wood floors and white walls and track lighting that serves to highlight things most of these people will not understand.

There is a pleasant tightening in my stomach as I move through the rooms, my skin tingling as it brushes against the arms and elbows of the people who have crowded into clusters of wealth and wine. I no longer feel slight and scrawny in my dress; instead I am sleek, serpentine as I weave through conversations that all sound the same.

Searching.

**+.+.+.+**

Minutes and minutes have gone by, and I'm fighting the simmer of annoyance when the photos stop me.

I move closer.

And stare.

Two large portraits, side by side. Both photographs are of a square, white wooden table against a white wall. One photo features the tabletop riddled with dozens of silver forks, their tines violently embedded in the pristine wooden surface.

I cannot look away.

It looks so quiet there, I think.

So quiet.

The stillness of the scene is juxtaposed against what must have been the fury that came before; the frenzied stabbing of a table with common cutlery.

Violence, and then tranquility.

The calm after the storm.

"Bella?"

My name barely registers from behind me before he is coming around and smiling down and I freeze, a strange panic shooting through. I don't like being caught off-guard.

"Edward," I murmur.

He does not greet me by leaning in to kiss my cheek, as I've seen so many men do tonight, but I don't blame him. Besides, I don't smell any scotch.

"You like this one?" he asks, nodding toward the photo that's drawn my attention.

"Yes."

"Why?"

The walls in the photo wouldn't call my crazy, I almost say, just for a laugh.

But I don't.

"It's peaceful."

He smiles. "That's one way to see it."

My tone is defensive before I can rein it in. "How would you describe it, then?"

"It seems… I don't know. Cruel."

"'Cruel?'"

"It's sterile. There's nothing that draws you into it. It's… cold."

Cold.

An echo of a memory whispers through me:

You're so cold, Isabella.

"Warmth is overrated."

He laughs. "I'm sure the artist wouldn't think so."

I look at the plaque to the side of the portraits. Vlad Antonov.

"Russian."

"He's from just outside of Moscow. Which incidentally makes him an expert on the cold, I believe."

"'Like a wind's whistle, that's lone spread/Over the smooth of ice,'" I quote.

"Who's that by?"

"Another Russian artist."

"You're not going to give me his name, either?" he asks with a smirk.

"I gave you my name."

"First name. Do you know how many Bellas there are in this city?"

"Do you?" I ask skeptically.

"I can hazard a guess and say thousands."

"That's a wild guess."

"I'm wildly curious."

"You really want to know?"

"Of course."

I sigh. "Anna Akhmatova."

"Sorry?"

"The line I just quoted. It was written by Anna Akhmatova."

"The other Russian artist," he confirms.

"Yes."

"That's very—oh."

"Sorry?"

I see the cause of his 'oh' immediately thereafter.

The stunning Ms. Denault, in a dress that the gods seemed to have designed specifically for her flawless frame, approaches. The flaring of her nostrils may go unnoticed by everyone else, but I can spot it. I can recognize it: twin serpents uncoiling in our bellies, snapping with anger and envy.

She has the grace to remain polished.

"Introduce me to your friend, Edward," she says lightly.

"Tanya, this is—"

"I believe we've already met," I say plainly. "The night of the benefit."

Tanya's eyes flash to mine, and I'm reminded that there are cold women like me everywhere.

**+.+.+.+**

"Isabella, apologize!"

"I won't."

"_Now_."

"I'm not sorry. I won't say I'm sorry if I'm not. That's lying."

"Charles!"

"I'm not a liar."

"What is it, Renee?"

"Take your daughter somewhere, please. I've had enough of her today."

"Isabella—"

"Cold little thing," Renee huffs. "I don't know what's wrong with her."

**+.+.+.+**

The wonder that is Tanya Denault does not relinquish his arm for the rest of the evening, but his eyes are his own and they seek out my own frequently.

The memory of this is the only warm thing I have as I shower, scrubbing that woman's scorn off my skin.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	8. Of Catching, Of Conquering

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Through the Dark Sod - as Education -

The Lily passes sure -

Feels her white foot - no trepidation -

Her faith - no fear -

Afterward - in the Meadow -

Swinging her Beryl Bell -

The Mold-life - all forgotten - now -

In Ecstasy — and Dell –

[Emily Dickinson, "Through the Dark Sod – as Education"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

The box in the coat closet will not let me be.

It hisses as I walk by.

It screams as I leave.

It whispers as I sleep.

Look at me, it demands.

I'm stronger than this.

I'm stronger than anything he could have sent me, but still

I do not look.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Black suit, platinum-and-grey striped tie.

I hate that he can appear so untouched and untouchable, his striking face clean of all traces of our acquaintance. It's irksome, when every breath and each footprint he's expended in my direction are practically visible on my skin.

His eyes find me again, and he smiles.

This time, he does not hesitate before coming over.

"I have a theory about your last name," he begins charmingly.

"Do you?"

"I do. Would you like to hear it?"

I shut my laptop and smile. "I have time."

The look in his eyes, I've seen it before: playful, determined. Focused. Flirtatious.

Edward Cullen grins as he tells me the story of the selkie, how the mythical creature is able to become human by leaving the sea and shedding her seal skin. He tells me that selkies in human form are lovely, and that they often bewitch human men with their beauty, only to leave them heartbroken after donning the seal skin and returning to the ocean. He tells me that a selkie's lover can keep her only after hiding her skin, thereby forcing her to remain with him on land as a human.

He laughs at the dubious look on my face.

"I still haven't heard your theory," I remind him.

"I've never met a selkie with a last name," he replies with a wink.

We say goodbye and he walks outside, leaving me wondering exactly how he knows so much about Gaelic folklore.

I look out the window at him, watching as he climbs into his car, unaware of my observance.

The moment before I mean to look away, his car door slams, and happen catch a glance of Edward Cullen's driver in time to meet his cold stare.

**+.+.+.+**

"It's a beautiful morning, Ms. Swan."

"Yes, Billy. It is."

"Sun is shining, we got a nice breeze moving through the city… it was getting pretty hot there for a little bit."

"'_What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance._'"

He frowns, thinks. Asks me to repeat it, and I do.

"Sounds like a woman," he grumbles momentarily, and does not guess the answer.

**+.+.+.+**

"Your father asked me to tell you hello," Dr. Cope informs me.

I nod.

"He seems to love you, very much."

"Yes, he does seem to."

I can feel her eyes, scanning my every facial tic with humanoid precision. She's studying me, gathering information and assimilating it into a strategy that will inform her next move. She thinks she's subtle. She thinks she'll surprise me.

"Tell me about your father, Isabella."

Annoyed, I fight the urge to shift restlessly at her question. What will it take to make this go away? I wonder to myself.

Something in me stirs at the thought, the question poking a sleeping beast.

**+.+.+.+**

"What will it take to make this go away?" my father asked an equally well-dressed man, while I waited on a bench outside.

"Mr. Swan, this isn't – this is a serious problem. Your daughter has been harassing my client for the past seven months."

"'Harassment' is hardly the legal term I'd use.'"

"My client—"

"Your _client_ is out of his depth, especially if he thinks he's dragging my family's name through the mud in the interest of saving his reputation."

"My client—"

"Tell Mr. Black to keep his dick in his pants next time. It'll save him and his loved ones a world of hurt."

The other man's response was muffled; minutes later, my father stepped into the hallway, his face a careful blank.

"We're going home now," he told me.

**+.+.+.+**

Dr. Cope scribbles away furiously.

"Have you spoken to Mr. Black since you've moved here?"

"No."

"Tried to contact him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because that was part of the deal. Surely, this has all been explained to you."

"I'm well aware of what it took to get you here, Isabella. I want to hear what _you_ think about it."

"Nothing," I answer honestly.

"Do you expect me to believe that?" she asks with a frown.

"I'm not a liar. So yes."

"Hm."

She doesn't believe me.

I don't care.

**+.+.+.+**

"You alright, Ms. Swan?"

"Yes, Billy."

"You don't look well—"

"I'm fine."

He looks hurt. Or concerned. Or both. "Yes, ma'am."

**+.+.+.+**

Navy suit, blue-patterned tie. I recognize it as a hand-folded Faconnee two-tone in turquoise and grey. Hermes.

Shop traffic is always heavier on Monday, so he must deign to rub his Armani shoulders against those of the Morningstar riffraff as he comes over to say hello.

"Good morning, Bella."

"Hello."

"So," he begins, eyeing my computer. "You're here every day?"

"Every morning."

I watch as he attributes this to coincidence.

"Are you a writer?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Anything I'd know?"

"No, nothing you've read."

We look at each other for a moment. I struggle to register every slope and angle of his face— how it moves, what it means. Watching, always watching.

My eyes catch the infinitesimal upward turn of his lips.

"Go out with me," he says.

There is a gleam, a look in his eyes that I've seen before: playful, determined. Focused. Flirtatious.

I imagine how these exchanges must seem to him: happenstance conversations with a quiet girl who's happened to cross his path. A discussion of art, a bit of playful banter with a sprinkling of Scottish mythology, perhaps even a hazy, alcohol-addled recollection involving whispers and skin and arousal.

I know this kind of man well. I know that even the nice ones are simply searching for a diversion, a distraction. Some of them may take the general female populace seriously, but this one doesn't. I'm sure I seem an attainable target to him, sitting alone day after day in the coffee shop. Cold little Bella, with her pale face and quiet voice and the way she's so easily swept aside by taller, blonder women.

Men love a chase, and I'm sure Edward Cullen means to catch me.

But I mean to conquer him.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	9. Up A Winding Stair

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;

I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

[Mary Howitt, "The Spider and the Fly"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Try and twist and tear as I might, I cannot be free of the vast, shapeless shadow that gathers beyond me, its edges tinged in white and forming themselves into things I do not want to see.

The silhouette of him.

You're not normal, Bella, but

come closer, it beckons,

and then comes to me anyway,

smelling of Acqua di Gio

and swallowing me whole.

**+.+.+.+**

"Dr. Cope asked me to call and let you know that she is under the weather and will not be able to make your appointment this week," the receptionist informs me cheerfully.

I almost dread the feeling of freedom that descends with her words.

**+.+.+.+**

Father always loved to sail.

"It's about balance," he'd tell me, before launching into a lengthy exposition on the virtues and purposes of a good wooden centerboard, the importance of weight distribution and the dangers of heeling.

And then we would sail, the wind a mad thing in our hair, the sun a benevolent mother with a warm embrace and I would squint through the flyaways of my braid and wonder what it must be like on the floor of our great, grey sea.

"Do you own all of this?" I asked him as a child.

And he laughed and said, Of course.

And then he would tell me of other things; about the fall of Anne Boleyn and the Eye of Horus, the Egyptian god of sky and war and hunting, and of how he manifested as a falcon, a symbol of majesty and power.

And I would listen, awestruck and silent, because Horus, our boat, was a beast my father had tamed and surely, surely he could do anything.

I was silent then, but did not know the virtue of it.

And did not learn it, until I began to speak.

**+.+.+.+**

I preen and primp and prepare, a dull rock beating itself into something that gleams, glistens.

"Where can I pick you up?" he'd asked, and I'd replied that I would meet him at the restaurant.

He thinks I couldn't possibly notice his eyes darken with disappointment as he says it would be no

trouble at all to pick me up at my place. "Are you sure?" he asks.

I think of the way his driver looked at me outside of Morningstar that day, the cold, precise assessment.

I think of the way the backseat of a car could very easily compromise my plans.

I think of another man's memory, a dark head on my pillow and long, tan fingers twisting in my sheets

and hair as I tell him, Of course I'm sure.

**+.+.+.+**

I've been the duckling.

I've been the girl in the corner, the one who watches and waits, wishing.

I've been the un-captivating captive, shackled and slain by that chronic compulsion, the niggling need to belong, to belong, to belong.

I've been the prey, praying for a way out of mazes of my own making.

Weak, wanton.

Helpless, hopelessly enthralled by the hunter.

But those days will never come again—not even as they try to escape that box, that little brown box in the closet. You're done, I tell them. You're done and I'm done with you.

But still, they whisper.

**+.+.+.+**

"Careful, Ms. Swan," Billy quips as I leave. "Or I might start thinking you have friends."

"I've already told you that I'm meeting someone, Billy."

He eyes me up and down, giving a low whistle when he sees the deadly height of my slingback stiletto pumps. "He's gonna love those."

"Don't be inappropriate, Billy."

"Sorry, Ma'am. What's my quote?"

"'_Love is a game in which one always cheats_,'" I quote.

He grins, triumphant. "Honore de Balzac."

"That's impressive, Billy."

"Right?" He winks. "I saw it while I was Googling."

**+.+.+.+**

I do not fidget on my way to the restaurant.

My feet do not tap impatiently on the cab's floor.

My fingers do not shake.

Only my palms and my pulse betray the hum of excitement in my chest, twisting, shifting inside.

It's beginning again.

This thought sustains my excitement the entire ride over, lightening my step after I check my coat and walk into the dining room, my eyes roving hungrily over the landscape of softly-lit white tablecloths until I find him.

As always, I find him.

Black suit, white shirt, no tie.

He stands from the table to greet me as I realize he must have come straight from work. He looks sharp, precise. His eyes meet mine and I read in them the desire to win and win me over.

Love is a game, I think, and I am ready for him.

**+.+.+.+**

Over drinks, Edward speaks of his work, of buying and selling and trading and guessing.

"It's really all one big wager," he explains, leaning forward over the table like it's a secret. "But the guesses get easier when you know what you're doing."

"I understand," I say, and I do.

And then there is more first-date drivel which he seems to be able to recite from memory: background, college, likes and pet peeves. He enjoys the New York Philharmonic Symphony, hates anything to do with Jennifer Aniston and has a long, faded scar on his forearm from playing polo in college.

I carefully listen to him speak, unable to memorize him fast enough.

**+.+.+.+**

Our plates have just been cleared when he leans forward, a bemused smile curving up his lips.

"You know," he says, loosened and lax by the alcohol. "You're very hard to read."

"As compared to what?"

He shrugs. "Other people."

"You mean other girls."

"Other people," he repeats firmly.

He is all expectant looks and raised eyebrows, waiting for me to reveal something that will smooth out the puzzled line between his brows, but I say nothing.

"Alright," he concedes. "For the sake of compromise, let's say that you're hard to read compared to other women."

"Other women?"

"Other women."

"Other women like Tanya Denault?" I ask, poised and pointed.

His eyes widen for a brief moment before his face smoothes back into its former implacable expression. "You're not at all like Tanya," he says evenly.

"I know I'm not."

"Oh really?"

"I'm not like a lot of other girls."

"Should I be worried?" he asks, but he isn't serious.

I sip my drink and set it down, smiling small. "Perhaps. Tell me about Tanya, Edward."

"She's a good friend of mine," he answers smoothly. "And that's all."

I hum thoughtfully, unabashedly scrutinizing his features as he squarely looks me in the face. He's a good liar, his expression the perfect balance of innocence and indifference as he stares me down.

I could press the issue, but I already know what matters of the truth, which means I already know he's lying. I say nothing of this.

Instead, I smile again. "Very well. So. I'm difficult to read?"

He thinks I don't notice the small look of relief that cross his face as he replies, "Extremely."

"Does it bother you?"

"Not at all," he replies with a smile. "I'll figure you out eventually."

Our eyes hold for a long moment, his gaze a proposition.

"I look forward to it," I say momentarily, and salute him with my glass.

**+.+.+.+**

"The night is young," he suavely declares with a wink, standing from the table and offering me his hand. "Care to take a walk?"

I nod. I know where we're going.

**+.+.+.+**

"Tell me something about you," he pleads laughingly, elbowing me gently. "I've been talking all night."

"I'm a good listener."

"You're a Sphinx. You're too quiet. Be less quiet."

He thinks we're feeling a buzz together, but an earlier trip to the ladies room at SD26 allowed me to instruct the waiter to begin replacing my vodka tonics with ice water. And so I walk, sober and silent, a plain grey thing in the face of the dazzling hues of a tipsy Edward Cullen.

"Tell me about you," he insists. "Give me something, or else I'll think you're not enjoying our date."

"I rarely go somewhere if I don't enjoy being there."

"That's interesting," he drawls, nudging my arm again. "Tell me more about that."

"I don't take requests."

He laughs again, showcasing his brilliant teeth and the vibrant muscle of his tongue. "Let me rephrase,

then," he says. "Why don't you go places you don't want to be? Everyone has to at some point. That's life. Societal obligations and all that."

"Randolph Bourne said that 'Society is one vast conspiracy for carving one into the kind of statue it likes,

and then placing it in the most convenient niche it has.'"

He chuckles. "Well, some niches are more comfortable than others."

"I believe you," I reply. "But I'm not interested in filling a niche."

He frowns, stops suddenly and grabs my arm, stilling me beside him. "Oh yeah? Do you not think you're in one? You think you've somehow evaded being carved into something you don't particularly like?"

"No one can completely escape that," I say with shrug.

"Then what's the point of fighting it?"

"To live as free as one can. And I do."

His expression is skeptical. "Do you?"

"Yes," I reiterate plainly.

He says nothing for a moment, regarding me with a steady. "I believe you," he says finally, his eyes darkening with a secret I don't yet know.

After a long several seconds, he begins walking again. "We're here. Let's go up."

**+.+.+.+**

The 230 Fifth Club is full of rich colors and plush couches, with scantily clad waitresses dotting the

landscape. Near the middle of the floor, a large staircase leads up to a rooftop garden that I am

determined to see before the night is over.

I'm not the only one determined to see something spectacular at the end of the evening.

He thinks I'm too busy removing my jacket to notice as he stares at my legs. He thinks he's subtle with his repeated glances at the neckline of my dress. He thinks there's no way I've noticed the way he's been eyeing my mouth as I speak, or eat, or drink.

I'm sure he's envisioning my lips otherwise occupied.

As we continue inside, Edward Cullen offers me his arm and I take it, curling my fingers around his bicep with the precision of a talon, my fingertips yearning to press through the cloth and finally, finally feel the skin that stretches, unclaimed and uncaught, beneath the sleeve. The images of him, of what he will do to me once I let him, assault me, a barrage of sweat and flesh and fucking that rushes through my heartbeat.

But that's not what tonight is for.

"Have you ever been here?" he asks me over the music.

I do not respond.

"Cullen!" someone female yells, and his attention is pulled away to acknowledges the greeting with a vague nod in the woman's direction.

I don't ask if or how they know each other.

**+.+.+.+**

He introduces me to a table of his friends: beautiful people who assess me coolly, their faces betraying nothing more than their own ennui.

"She's better than the last one," one of the men quips to his friend in a voice I'm sure I'm not meant to hear.

"Better tits," is the equally-subtle rejoinder.

Seemingly oblivious to this exchange regarding my breasts, Edward looks around before turning to a woman at the table of his peers. "Is Alice here?"

"She's around," the woman answers. "But she's here. And you're in trouble. She's still pissed."

The people at the table privy to this information laugh uproariously, as Edward only nods and leads me away.

**+.+.+.+**

He thinks I don't notice the looks he receives as we make our way to the roof. Women watch him, wistful or lustful or smug, their memories or fantasies playing out in an unsubtle panoply of desire across their features. And then their gazes inevitably catch me walking behind him, after which they occupy themselves either by glaring at me openly or looking down and away.

Look at yourselves, I want to sneer. Waiting for me to leave his side so you can simper at his every word, laugh at his inane jokes as you surreptitiously ask the universe for a way to master your gag reflex so you can suck him off in a back room well enough to warrant a quick fuck and a phone call the next day.

There are blondes and brunettes and redheads of all different shapes and sizes, but the vacancies in their eyes make them all look the same. They part unwillingly for us.

I'm sure their panties are wet already. Small wonder that he's bored.

For now.

**+.+.+.+**

The view of the city is breathtaking, all lights and steel and sky. In the distance, the Chrysler Building looms imperiously over its immediate vicinity.

Edward leads us away from the clusters of people, over to a section of the low hedge of shrubbery lining the rooftop's wall.

"It's beautiful up here, isn't it?"

I nod in agreement, fighting the urge to climb the greenery and sit on the ledge, letting my feet dangle in the air over Manhattan.

Instead, we place our drink orders with a stray waiter and stand facing the city.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

I smile. "I'd rather not."

"I don't even know your last name."

"Selkies don't have last names," I remind him.

"Bella."

"Edward."

"I'm trying to be patient, here," he huffs.

"Try harder," I retort dryly.

I feel, rather than see, him sulking. I let him be, silent as I stare out over the skyline.

"I don't think I'm used to being turned down," he mutters after a few minutes.

I know this already.

"You'll have to tell me sometime."

"Yes," I agree. "I suppose I will."

He turns to me then, his hand moving to my neck, and I move to face him.

The colors of him, the colors.

Beautiful.

His mouth parts slightly as he stares down into my face, hooded eyes and full lips and sharp jaw, and for the first time all evening I am unsure of my ability to guess what he's thinking.

Take him take him take him, something inside of me chants.

Crazy, something else hisses. You're crazy crazy crazy crazy—

"I'm having a lot of fun with you tonight, Bella," he murmurs, and I am awake again.

He's said these words before, but not to me.

He's still playing his own game, and playing it well.

And so I resume mine.

I turn back toward the city and tell him that I'm glad. And when he takes my hand to hold, I let him.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	10. Prim, Pretty Thing

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Not the soul that's whitest

Wakens love the sweetest:

When the heart is lightest

Oft the charm is fleetest

[George William Russell, "Light and Dark"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

The turn onto his street cues the tightening in my gut, the rush of pulse and adrenaline. My fingers flex around the wheel, my foot trembling in its place on the brake.

His home perches regally on the large, sloping lawn ahead, and I slow down.

Father's money has purchased me this: the number on the mailbox in front of me.

This is where he lives.

This is where he is.

This is where I want to be.

Visions of surprising him pass through my brain, neurons running rapid-fire through each scenario and its possible outcome. All of them end with him discovering the black lace beneath my dark trench coat before pinning me to the wall, to the bed, to the floor. Pressing and pulling and piercing. Mine.

The car glides smoothly up the drive.

Park and open and one stiletto on the ground before I hear it:

"Isabella?"

He looks shocked, but men so often do when a woman takes control.

"Jacob," I breathe with a smile.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward Cullen is a wanted man.

Two women have him cornered after accosting him on his way to the bar, rushing for him in a whirlwind of bulimia and Bvlgari jewelry. They're all barely-teenage tits and coed cunts wrapped in the glittering sheen of silicon and wealth, tight dresses and tan skin.

From my vantage point at our table, I can see Edward's eyes as he is apparently unable to stop scanning the shapely collection of limbs in front of him. The girls notice too, preening at the attention.

"Want me to set their extensions on fire?" the redhead beside me asks. Victoria, I remember.

She's beautiful, just like everyone else in Edward Cullen's cortege, but there's something wild about her. Something different, something desperate.

"No need," I reply calmly.

"You sure?"

I nod and sip my drink.

"Look, I don't want to offend you, but this wouldn't be the first time Edward's switched partners in the middle of a dance. He's never been one to shy away from moving on to blonder pastures."

Her skeletal fingers belie her smirk, her easy words, trembling as they clutch her glass.

"I'm sure that's true. Regardless, he's leaving with me."

Across the room, the girls laugh uproariously at something he's told them.

"I don't know how you're so calm," Victoria mutters. "You're either confident, naïve or crazy."

I smile, and my eyes do not leave him. "I'm not naive."

**+.+.+.+**

Years ago, the majesty of our family sailboat "Horus" became confined to the dock, as time and stress and business added lines to my father's face, and weight to his shoulders.

Father spoke less of ancient legends and sailing and more of things I neither understood nor cared for: fundraising and lobbying and polling and the trends among his clients' constituencies.

"It's all about winning," he told everyone, over and over again, as my mother smiled and nodded and posed when appropriate, hosting parties and moving through money like Horus through the Bay… as I stared longingly at the horizon, searching for the sea.

**+.+.+.+**

A slim, manicured hand is running down the lapel of Edward Cullen's jacket. I know better than to expect him to remove it.

"So where did Edward find you?" Victoria asks.

"We met at a fundraiser a few weeks ago."

"Bootleg?"

"That's right."

"What did he say to you? How did he get you to come out with him?"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "He asked."

"I'll bet he did. He must not have wasted any time picking you up," she sighs heavily, exhaling oxygenated whiskey into my face. "Pretty little thing like you. That's what he said, you know, to Alice."

"Who is Alice?"

"Sister. She's his sister. He told her about Tanya."

"What about Tanya?"

"He wasn't—" she hiccoughs. "He ditched her at the Bootleg Ball for someone—hey, was that you?"

"Probably."

"He ditched her for some girl, he said she was pretty. Prim. 'Prim and pretty,' that's what he said. Alice—" hiccough "lost her shit when she found out."

"Oh?"

"Tanya's her best friend. She's supposed to be with Edward, I think." She reaches out to stroke my cheek. "Your skin is so smooth."

"Thank you," I reply.

"Has he fucked you yet? I'll bet he has. He always does. They always let him." Her eyes narrow, her fingers stroking down over my face before tightening slightly on the side of my neck. "You let him, didn't you?"

My fingers encircle her wrist as I smile, bringing her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss onto her palm. "Have you let him?" I ask against her skin.

"Once," she whispers, misery and intoxication staring back at me.

"And Tanya Denault?"

She nods.

Perhaps she deserves pity for the way she's been used, for her sad, hollow gaze, for the desperation in the way her other hand is running slowly up my thigh. She moves closer.

"So smooth," she mouths.

Perhaps she deserves pity, but she's only earned my disgust.

"Are you familiar with Nietzsche?" I ask her.

I am the very picture of unsurprised when she shakes her head no.

"He once said, 'The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.'"

She stares at me blankly, and I sigh.

You're not worthy of him, I think.

Weak, whiny, wanton.

"Show me how to not care," she slurs, her head lolling drunkenly against the back of the booth. "Show me how to be cold."

**+.+.+.+**

The new city beckons like a bad influence, and my first evening in TriBeCa is spent huddled into a Donna Karan white wool double-face coat as I stroll down Worth Street, exploring the neighborhood and nearby Columbus Park.

My nanny Ilse had brought me here as a child once, filling my days with activity as my parents made the most of their business visit with city leaders. I'd loved it then, the greenery a brilliant backdrop to people practicing tai chi and soccer. Breakdancers mingled with mahjong players and I'd savored my Zen Butter as Ilse tried to shield me looking at the bums.

They're not clean, she'd whispered urgently. They'll ask for money. Stop staring.

Unshaven and filthy, one of the homeless men stares back and begins to move closer, closer, close enough for me to see a bead of sweat run down his temple. He's overdressed for the summer heat.

Beside me, Ilse tensed. "I have no money," she preemptively declared.

He ignored her, stopping a few feet away and crouching down to look me in the eye. I met his gaze unblinkingly.

And he began to laugh.

"I _see _you," he wheezed. "I _see_ your pretty little heart. You're marked. You're marked!"

"Get away from us," Ilse commanded, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.

"One of me," he continued. "One of the cold ones. Another one of me. Passion! Passion! You'll die for your passion!"

Horrified, Ilse hurried me away, but still I looked back, fascinated as he announced to all what he'd seen in my eyes.

"Marked! A little girl marked. It's not right, but it's real. Passion! She'll die for her passion! The luckiest unlucky passionate one…"

"You'll not tell your parents about this, Liebchen?" Ilse asked worriedly as we left the park. "You'll forget all about it, won't you? They'll worry so and I did not know he would speak to us, filthy man—"

I assured her I would not tell, but I did not forget him.

And now I stand, and remember, in the spot where he'd declared me marked.

**+.+.+.+**

He returns to the table with a small smile and an apology for taking so long.

"I saw some old friends," he explains, and I nod. Something in my face holds his attention, however, and he eyes me with something like apprehension.

"We've just been talking about you," I inform him.

The apprehension grows. "Nothing too bad, I hope."

"I've heard that I'm pretty and prim."

He grins, relaxing, and slides closer to me. "It's true," he whispers into my ear. "Pretty, prim thing. You still look like you're a good little girl, you know. Even in those shoes."

I smile, thinking of the future, of all the ways I'll claim him.

Beside me, Victoria laughs bitterly.

**+.+.+.+**

The walking from my stroll in the park whets my appetite for a drink, and the "Apotheke" sign above a bar on Doyers Street draws me in. I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkened room as I peel off my gloves and search for a place to sit.

Twenty minutes later, I'm halfway through my drink when the 19th-century-inspired absinthe-den-aesthetic of the bar begins to seem less eccentric. The establishment is small; an L-shaped room lined with Victorian-style couches and small tea tables. The close proximity to the other patrons allows me to enjoy the conversations that are happening all around. I listen to the voices of these people, chatty and comfortable in their element.

Those who are not cut loose or set adrift. Those who belong here.

I'm pondering the merits of ordering another drink when a mêlée by the bar attracts my attention. I turn my head to ascertain the source of the commotion.

**+.+.+.+**

Danger and play, I think, as his hand rests on my lower back to escort me out of the club. We make our farewells and he helps me into my coat.

"Cold?" he asks as we step outside.

"Always."

"You know," he says, grinning. "I have a fireplace."

He looks at me steadily, and I wonder how many women have seen the architectural marvel that I'm sure is his fireplace. How many women he's engaged, just like this.

They always let him, Victoria said.

I mull over the information I've gained by watching him tonight. Observe, gather, assimilate. And now, amend.

"I'd like to see it," I inform him evenly.

His grin grows even wider.

**+.+.+.+**

The first time I lay eyes on him that night, I think of the desires of Nietzsche's true man.

His trim, six foot-odd frame is at a disadvantage to the large man currently pressing him into the wall by his throat. Even from behind his assailant, I can tell he's well-dressed.

"Fucking get _off_," he manages to say to the oaf that has him pinned.

"Apologize to my girlfriend!" Ah. It speaks.

Security appears, the three men attempting to ascertain who is at fault. The patrons in the immediate vicinity of the near-brawl quickly learn two things:

First, that the burly man does _not_ appreciate Armani-clad barflys attempting to seduce his girl. "He kissed her!" he yells.

And second, the Armani-clad barfly in question has no such qualms regarding his own behavior.

"Teach your girl some manners or put her on a leash," he snaps in reply, the very picture of unrepentant. "_She_ kissed _me_."

And there are more shoves, and more shouts, and after another minute of arguing the brawny man and his girlfriend begin a grandiose, invective-filled departure, as Barfly looks on impassively.

"Fuck you, Cullen!" the man shouts as they exit.

The man called Cullen only smirks, and as he turns back to the bar his eyes catch mine for a brief second.

I see him, I think. I _see_ him.

He is elegant angles and striking slopes and contrasts, sharply shadowed bone structure and brilliant bright eyes. But beyond all of this, there is a flatness; he is beauty, but also boredom.

He's not fully turned away before I know that I am destined to be his danger and play.

**+.+.+.+**

As promised, his fireplace is beautiful.

And he is persistent.

"Have another drink," he laughs, playfully winding an arm around my waist and pulling me closer while brandishing his glass in the opposite hand. "For me, Bella No-name."

"No, thank you," I reply, twisting in his tight grasp. His hand slides further up my ribs, a finger shy of my breast.

"For _me_," he repeats.

"I can't imagine why you're so insistent on getting me drunk," I sigh. "I'm already here."

"That's right. And you don't go places you don't want to be."

I silence the moan his touch elicits as his hand slides upward and home, closing around my breast and squeezing gently.

"You need another drink because," he whispers against me. "You need to relax."

"Hm. Do I?"

"Yes."

"I feel relaxed."

"No, you're not. You say you are but you're not."

"Is that right?"

"Yes," he repeats with another squeeze. "Such a goddamn ice princess, but look at this," he groans, feeling my pebbled nipple beneath the silk of my shirt and the lace of my bra. "You could be so warm. You want to be warm. Feel it."

"I'm not warm?"

"Not warm enough," he breathes. "You're so calm. Untouchable."

"You're touching me now."

"Do you like it?"

"Mmhm."

"I want to see you wild. I want to see you lose control."

Be careful, I think.

Give in, he whispers against me, and the wetness between my legs is ready for him, for this game to be over.

Take him.

Take him.

Take him.

I wrap my fingers around the wrist under my breast, loosening his hold as I turn and step slightly away from him. I look up into his face just in time to see disappointment.

He's not drunk, but he's had enough to let down his guard.

And I can read him perfectly like this.

"You want me to lose control?" I ask in a low voice.

He nods, his mouth parting the slightest bit. I can see his tongue just barely lick his top lip.

"You're a spoiled little boy, do you know that? Trying to get me drunk just to have your way." My hand grabs his other wrist, pushing his half-full drink up to his mouth. Relaxed, he complies, his hooded eyes watching me, watching me, watching me.

A heady thing, to be watched.

"Drink," I command. "Drink until it's gone."

He hesitates.

"Drink. Or I'm leaving."

He brings the tumbler to his lips and tilts back his head as he drains the glass with a grimace. I stare at the movement of his throat as he swallows, fighting back the twitching of my fingers.

Let us go there, they beg. Let us touch.

He sets the glass down on the bar with a loud thud, licking his lips, his arms reaching for me.

I thread an arm around his neck and pull him down to me, forcing him to bend his knees slightly. My other hand travels down his chest to the hardness contained in his trousers.

"Ah," he breathes into my mouth, and kisses me.

He tastes of scotch and smoke and money, hot and wet and him and I pull him closer, fingers in his hair and around him, straining into my hand. His lips move over mine with more enthusiasm than precision, his hands slide down and around and pull me against him and I kiss him back, nipping at his mouth and swallowing his moans.

I've waited. I've waited so long and the coldness retreats into the background as I melt, I melt, I melt. The fire is a dangerous servant, a fearful master and it overtakes me, its flames licking us both as I taste him.

"You brought me here to fuck me," I whisper into his mouth, and he huffs a soft laugh, thrusting up into my hand.

"We have a winner," he retorts.

He's hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his pupils dilated as he stares longingly into my face. He's played his game, as I am playing mine, and he thinks he's about to claim his prize.

With a yank, I cruelly twist my hand around him, the flames climbing higher inside as he gasps, as his smirk melts into a flinch and his face transforms into something else, something startled.

"Shit," he yelps, and grows harder in my grasp.

"Good boy," I murmur.

Prim, pretty thing, he'd whispered into my hair, and I'd smiled.

But now I'm going to make him scream.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	11. The Fever & The Fury

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

What is it men in women do require?

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

What is it women do in men require?

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

[William Blake, "A Question Answered"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

'Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint,' James Russell Lowe once wrote.

Power and control: valuable things. Not easily lain aside, even when tempted by passion to do so.

Tempted as I am, although I do not bend.

And now my passion is in front of me, desire in every line of him. He's pulled tight, tight, tight and I'll pull him tighter still.

He stares down at me, wide-eyed and panting, fear and confusion mingled with anticipation and arousal. I hold him in my hands and he could get away, he could twist out of my reach so easily, so quickly. He could end this right now.

But he won't.

Because I am many things, but I am not impulsive and therefore, rarely wrong. This is a man of hidden wants, buried needs, and I'm going to leave him sated, satisfied but first comes the extraction of his longings and I'll dig, god I'll dig right into him until he's free and mine.

I dig, _dig_ my nails into his neck and into his cock, and he inhales sharply, quickly, pain and power.

"Does it hurt?" I ask, and my voice is ice but my eyes are still ablaze.

He nods quickly, swallowing hard, and I grin at his response and run my tongue up the side of his neck. Taste his skin and his pulse and then – a kiss on the mouth – his breath. My hand strokes him, fondly fondling as his long fingers curl, form and flex around my hips.

Power. Control.

"More?"

I look up into his face for my answer, watch as he hurdles over hesitation and nods once again.

My other hand drops from his neck to unzip him, and then I am reaching in and pulling out and he's long, hot, hard in my hand as I stroke, stroke, stroke and he lets out a long, low moan.

"Good?"

"You… ah… you know it is," he answers breathlessly.

"You're big," I observe conversationally. "I'm very small. I don't think there's any way you'll fit inside me."

He frowns. "Stop… teasing me."

"Teasing you?" I ask with a squeeze.

"I'll fit," he gasps. "Of course I'll fit. I'll fill you up…" he groans again as I squeeze harder. "Shit."

"You'll fill me up?"

"Yeah…"

"You mean while you're fucking me?"

He nods quickly, his breathing a harsh sound.

"We'll see about that," I whisper. "I didn't come here to stare at your bedroom ceiling while you get off."

He huffs a sharp laugh. "You don't think I can get you off?"

I smile, and there is fire in it.

**+.+.+.+**

There is an olive-skinned man with eyes and hair the color of new coal, broad shoulders and big smile, teeth flashing as he talks to my father. He's larger than me, than this room, than life.

"Isabella," my father calls, beaming. "Come meet the man who's going to represent Washington's seventh congressional district."

Father introduces all of his clients this way; this grandiose predictive title-mongering is one of the reasons he's called The Kingmaker. It's all about winning, he'd say. And he wins often.

The man next to him looks like another notch on the victory belt.

"Jacob, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Isabella."

"It's a pleasure," he says easily, offering a large hand and a wide grin.

I shake his hand, and shiver inwardly. There's a realness to him, a sureness and a savvy that pulls me in, and a reply with a quiet, "Nice to meet you."

"Isabella is halfway through her senior year at Dartmouth," my father says proudly. "Sharp as a tack."

"What's your major?" Black asks with a smile.

"I'm doubling. Psychology and Women's Studies."

"Our Bella's off to law school next year," Father crows, beaming. "We've just received her acceptance letter from Columbia."

"Your alma mater," Black notes. "I'm sure we'll see great things from you, Isabella."

I watch him the rest of the evening.

He is a tactile talker, punctuating his statements with casual, glancing touches on the arms of those around him. The people around him listen to him speak, enthralled, as my father looks on with barely-contained glee.

"The next JFK," I hear him whisper to one of the men beside him, and the nodding his remark elicits is enthusiastic.

Congressional candidate Jacob Black is a masterful conversationalist and storyteller, and I am one of the many transfixed as he talks about political gridlocks, taxation and education, spending and unemployment. He is realism meets idealism, Svengali at work on the people in his vicinity and then some.

His touch brushes against my shoulder as he talks about the inefficiency of politics as they are, and the metal of his wedding band is ice on my feverish flesh.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward Cullen's bedroom is everything I expected.

Hardwood floors. Black and white subway prints of artistic nudes and semi-nudes. Large mirror. A bed large enough to double as his sexual playground.

I look around, inhale and exhale. There are memories in this bed, phantom impressions of the bodies of other women, other hapless players in the scheme of his sexual conquests, and I'm about to exorcise them all.

He comes up behind me, hands on my hips, lips on my neck.

"Take off your clothes," I command.

He pauses his assault on the skin above my shoulder, every inch of him balking.

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, there is," he says into my skin, irritation evident in his tone. "How about a goddamn 'please'?"

I turn around, stare at him until his gaze wavers.

"I'm not really into being bossed around," he informs me.

"Is that right?"

He nods.

"Tell that to your cock," I whisper, reaching down, squeezing his bobbing erection, reveling in his hiss of pleasure. "He seems to like it just fine."

He glowers at me until I move my hand, up, down, stroke him again. I can see the small surrender in him the moment I've won.

"Take off your fucking clothes."

He stares, glares. Hesitates. And obeys.

**+.+.+.+**

Father Brewer is a kind-looking man with a soft voice and small hands. He leaves the door open after ushering me into his office.

"High school can be very difficult," he begins thoughtfully. "Your mother mentioned that you might need someone to talk to."

"My mother thinks I'm crazy and she doesn't want to be seen carting me into a psychiatrist's office."

He chuckles. "I'm sure your mother doesn't think you're crazy."

I shrug.

"Your mother mentioned specifically that there are some issues regarding your relationships with boys."

"I'm sure she did."

"Tell me this, Isabella: do you feel a compulsion to follow or fixate on certain boys around you?"

"No."

"Be honest, child."

"Father, I haven't been to Mass since my father decided it was more politically profitable to be a Methodist. Also, I'm not a child, and I don't lie."

He sighs, looks down at the notepad in his lap. "Who is Tyler Crowley?"

I flinch, and he notices.

**+.+.+.+**

There is a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor bearing Brooks Brothers and Armani labels.

There is a discarded Rolex on the dresser.

There are the faint lights from the city that peer in through the windows.

There is a man, naked but for his black boxer briefs, standing in front of me.

I take my time letting my eyes rake up and down his body; I've waited too long to miss any detail of him. Tall frame, pale skin, broad shoulders that taper into a narrow waist and well-muscled thighs – a runner's body. He is fit, but not overtly muscular; the lean lines of his torso show the possible beginnings of yuppie excess: early morning meetings mean shorter runs, long hours mean too much time at the office, and his social life provides copious amounts of alcohol, late-night meals and lazy sex. He'll have to work harder if he wants to keep his pretty muscle definition.

He's turned on, but with every moment that passes, there is another war in his eyes. He thinks he still has decisions to make.

"Your turn," he says, eyebrow cocked, as he stares meaningfully at my still-clad form. I smirk.

"Soon. Get on the bed."

He sits immediately, his expression one of reluctance, but I can see how his cock jumps when I speak.

"Lie down," I instruct.

"What, are you going to tie me up?"

"I will if you don't stop talking like a petulant child," I reply calmly. "Lie down."

He does so, muttering something mutinous under his breath. He'll pay for it later.

But there he is, stretched out, supine and susceptible, a slightly worried look on his face and the fire inside me roars with approval.

Take him.

Take him.

Take him.

I crawl onto the bed until I am above him on hands and knees, and the only thing touching him is my hair and the hem of my dress as gravity pulls it toward his skin. He stares up at me, his hard eyes and stubborn mouth transforming as he looks. See me, I want to whisper. You can see me.

"I see you," I whisper, and his mouth opens to form words he doesn't yet know.

My hands run down his arms to his wrists and I push at them until they're pinned above his head, sinking down until his cock is cradled against my center. He whimpers.

He's mine.

Panting, prone.

He's _mine_.

"Please," he breathes, and I am almost disappointed.

"'Please'?"

"Please stop torturing me," he clarifies.

I smile. "Torturing you? How?"

"You know how," he replies in a low voice.

"Mm. Tell me."

"I want to fuck you," he says boldly.

"I know."

"You're being a tease."

"I haven't even begun to tease you," I laugh, relishing the frustration in his voice, on his face, and roll my hips against him.

"Baby—" he groans, and the word nicks a raw wound, a nerve in my chest.

Something inside screeches, shrieks indignantly.

I slap his mouth, and he recoils.

"The fuck?" he snarls.

"Don't call me that," I hiss, my fingers a vise on his chin as he attempts to look away. "Look at me. Don't you _dare_ address me with the same nickname you've given all the other sluts you've paraded in here for a quick fuck."

His breathing whistles harshly through my hand as I hold his face firm, his eyes sharp, searching and wretched.

"Bella," he says finally.

"That's better. Stupid boy. It's easier than learning names, and I'll bet it works on them, doesn't it? A few vague terms of endearment and they're begging to suck you off. Isn't that right?"

He does not answer, but the darkening of his gaze tells me he can't think of anything to say.

"Am I right?" I ask again, and I grab one of his hands, beautiful hands, and guide it down, down, down to me, to where I'm dripping. I slide our hands beneath the lace of my underwear, smile as he breathes a low, long, "Fuck," as he feels me.

His fingers gently probe, lightly stroke, and I exhale sharply at the sensation.

"Your women are too easy, Edward Cullen," I whisper in his ear, nipping at the lobe. "They're so happy just to have you look twice at them, do you know why?"

He doesn't answer, and I raise my head to look at him. His eyes are wild, unfocused. "You're so wet," he breathes.

My fingers encircle his wrist, pull his hand away. "Open your mouth," I command.

This time, he does not hesitate.

I lift his hand toward his mouth, watching him, watching his tongue dart out to lick his lips. "Taste that," I tell him. "And enjoy it, because I don't give it away for nothing. I'm more than some bitch you've picked up in a bar."

His mouth opens, and I shove his fingers inside.

"Those women take what they can get from you because they don't know their place. They don't know how bland they are, how _bored _you are."

He sighs against my fingers, eyes feral and hips rising to rub himself against me.

"Please," he mumbles around my hand, thrusting futilely upward.

"I am your danger and your play," I hiss. "And I'm going to make you _work_ for it."

**+.+.+.+**

The smell of the city assaults me as I step out of the car. I'm no bumpkin, but New York is new, and unlike London, Paris, or Washington. I feel free, cut loose, set adrift in the teeming sea of humanity and architecture looming on all sides.

A broken heart, my father said, but it feels more like wounded pride as I'm shuffled into the heart of the world on a short leash.

"Ms. Swan," the doorman greets with a friendly smile. "I trust your trip was alright."

"Yes, thank you."

"My name's Billy. Mr. Carlisle's given me very strict instructions to make sure you have everything you need for the duration of your stay here."

I frown. "Are you the concierge as well?"

"I'm whatever you need me to be, Ms. Swan," he says with a wink. "Welcome to the Saranac."

**+.+.+.+**

His hands stay above his head as I pull down his boxer briefs.

"You're leaking," I remark nonchalantly, eyeing his length as it juts upward against his abdomen. A flick of the wrist and his briefs are discarded to the pile on the floor.

"Tease," he mumbles.

I smile, lifting my dress over my head. I can hear the quick intake of his breath. "Do you like thigh highs?" I ask conversationally. "I can leave them on."

"Yes," he whispers.

I climb back over him, straddling one of his thighs and scrutinizing his cock with a frown. "You're too worked up for the little I've done to you." My hand encircles his length, and I stroke him again as he sighs. "We've barely even started."

"Oh, god…"

"I won't even get to put you in my mouth, at this rate."

"Bella—"

"I hope you don't come too soon."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he rasps, a weak smirk on his lips. "I'm going to tear your shit up."

He screams when I slap his cock.

**+.+.+.+**

The light in my bedroom is on when I come home, and I tense.

The way my mother icily calls my name cements the dread in my gut, and I stop in the doorway, anger and fear warring in my chest.

"What are you doing in here?" I demand.

She stands up from the floor beside my bed, her face a mask of fury. "What the hell is _this_?" she spits, holding up the object in her hand, and I freeze.

"Put that down."

"Explain yourself, young lady," she commands coldly. "You're too old for this. You know better."

I shrug. "What I write in my journal is none of your concern."

"How you treat your father's clients is," she angrily rejoins. "Why are you writing about Jacob Black?"

**+.+.+.+**

"Are you going to cry?" I ask incredulously, running his head up and down my slit.

"No," Edward gasps. "Just… ah, fuck. Let me in."

"Say my name," I command. "Say my name and ask me nicely."

"Bella," he blurts, eyes frantic. "Bella, _god_, c'mon…"

I lightly pinch his foreskin, smiling at his started yelp. "Ask me," I say again. "Nicely."

Power and control.

Without it, he's a fish out of water, gasping for air as he says, "Please, Bella, fuck me."

I smile, line him up and begin to sink down, hiding the sudden wince from the motion. It's been several months, and he's larger than I've been used to.

I discover that the discomfort I feel is not mutual, and the pain of him recedes to the back of my mind as I watch him, head thrown back, mouth agape, eyes clenched shut in rapture as he pants my name like an invocation.

"Bella, Bella, Bella," he breathes, and I'm one fantasy closer to owning him. He is everything right now, my prey and my prayer and my captive, my spoils of war, my conquered city and my friendly fire. I sink down even further and stare as he comes apart, panting and chanting my name and fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Tight," he wheezes. "Holy _fuck_."

I slide down more and he is in, home home home and the pain is pleasure as I flex, squeeze around him.

"Bella."

"Edward," I grind out, the sound trial and triumph. "You have to know… I'm the best you're ever going to have."

"Bella," he repeats dumbly, and I take it as assent.

His hands move hungrily to my hips, and I swat them away, pin them above his head again and he complies. He eyes my breasts hungrily as they sway above him, licks his lips and sighs, but minds his place and does not touch.

And then I move, I fuck him up and down and hard, watch him as he watches me, malachite and ivory and copper in a brilliant blur below. His sounds come steady, the fucks and Bellas and pleases and yesses, the whimpers and shouts and grunts and groans blending together into a magnificent cacophony of subjugation, of desperation.

I move my hand to his throat, but his arms stay above his head of his own volition, fists clenching and muscles flexing as my fingers savor the skin beneath his jaw. His eyes are turbulent, tempestuous and more than ever I can see him, see him, see him.

Passion, I think. Passion and more passion, and perhaps we'll both die for it but—

"I'm going to come," he warns.

"Not until I say," I growl in response.

He shakes his head in agitation. "No, it's… fuck… it's too much…"

"Get your shit together," I snarl, my own finish fast approaching, almost there and almost there and muscles begin to tighten around him. "Work for it."

"Too much…" he repeats, but grits his teeth, determined and desperate and I continue to fuck him as hard as I can, and we are sweat and sex and sound as I gasp my release, gasp my consent for him to follow and he is captive and captivating as he howls, howls, bays at the sky like a lycanthrope loosed by the moon.

I am frozen above him, muscles locked as he shudders into me once more with a heavy groan.

And then there is only breathing.

Moments turn to minutes, and the minutes drift by slowly, dead leaves on a lazy river.

He is splayed out, soft inside me, arms akimbo and eyes closed as he pants, pants, pants. I am above him still, perched like a carrion bird above a carcass, wings in tatters, winded and weary and worn. This is his bareness and his beauty; in his exhaustion, he is transcendent.

Now, more than ever, I see him, and am mesmerized.

The fire inside is not yet gone, and embers flare at this thought:

He is mine.

**+.+.+.+**

You have a broken heart, my father tells me, before assuring me it will heal with time and distance – both of which he is promptly providing.

"The Blacks are being more than accommodating right now, especially in light of this… indiscretion, Isabella," he says sternly. "Make sure you remember that when making new friends."

I nod. "I'll remember to stay low-key."

"Low-key is good. Invisible is better, though. Especially right now."

I know this. Election cycles and the goodwill of politicians everywhere are the life's blood of my father's work. Powerful people in pretty places love the way the Charles Swan family looks.

Irreproachable, people have said. The family is simply perfect.

"There are only so many opportunities I can give you, Isabella," he warns. "Do not waste this."

I thank him again.

We stand in silence until Mother comes in to inform us that my car has arrived.

**+.+.+.+**

"Where are you going?" Edward asks.

He is still naked, uncovered and unashamed, his spent cock flaccid against his thigh, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat even after his light post-coital doze.

"You know where I'm going," I reply, sliding into my shoe.

His scowl furrows the faint lines on his forehead. "Then may I ask _why_ you're going?"

"Because I don't stay in places I do not want to be, and I no longer want to be here."

The frown becomes a sulk. "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"

"Why? Because I'm leaving, or because I'm leaving before you ask me to do so?"

I head for the bedroom door, leaving him to his thoughts, to the heavy smell of sex that lingers in his room, to the dark.

"Bella," he calls, and I turn around.

"I had a great time tonight," he says, and he is watching my face for something weak, something wanton that will make me disrobe again and join him in that bed.

He does not find it.

"Of course you did," I reply with a cool smile. "Good night."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	12. Glacies et Flamma

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

He said to me: 'I'm a true friend!'

and then touched my dress.

How unlike an embrace

the closeness of his caress.

Thus, you stroke birds or cats, yes,

thus you view shapely performers…

in his calm eyes only laughter,

beneath pale-gold eyelashes.

And the voices of sad viols

sang behind drifting vapour:

'Give thanks to heaven, then –

you're alone at last with your lover.'

[Anna Akhmatova, "Evening"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Edward Cullen's apartment is immaculate, masculine and moneyed.

Alabaster granite floors, Venetian plastered walls and polished ebony wood accents: this is where he unwinds. This is where he nurses his abominable vanity.

I note the bookcase in his office on my way out, my eyes quickly skimming across the titles on one of the shelves. _The Letters of Private Wheeler_,_ The Middle Parts of Fortune, Sagittarius Rising, The Cruel Sea, The Forgotten Soldier_…

My smile is wide and involuntary: Edward is a student of war.

A pile of opened mail on his credenza catches my eye. The topmost envelope looks like an invitation, is postmarked several weeks prior and bears a return address to the Sumeria Group.

The city lights wink at me, luminous and congratulatory, as I leave his building and hail a cab.

**+.+.+.+**

October and November are my father's favorite and worst months.

Safely ensconced in what my father's contemporaries have dubbed "The Bunker," fifty of my father's closest work associates gather in the home office suite he's constructed in the basement of our home in McLean. In each room, a widescreen television pipes in MSNBC's coverage of the congressional elections.

So far, spirits are high. Out of sixteen of Charles Swan's endorsed candidates, nine have won congressional seats. And, with an appropriately sulky concession speech from the defeated incumbent, Jacob Black makes ten.

There is applause and cheering, high fives and hugs, as Black comes on-screen to give his victory speech. He strolls onto the American flag-festooned stage, a wide grin planted firmly on his face. Behind him, Mrs. Black practices her Stepford Grin.

"That boy is gold, Carlisle," my father barks into his phone, his dark eyes locked onto the television. "Wait—no, he's better than gold. I'm telling you, this is JFK redux— no, hear me out: he's got the looks, the money, the political savvy…"

His voice drones on beside me as I stare, fascinated, at the triumphant image of the young, dark-haired man on the screen. I feel the stirrings of something forgotten, forbidden, feral. For an instant, I am transported to a place of green and grey and shadows, to a part of me once awakened under the glow of a cloudless night. It's a fascination, a fancy, a driving burn to possess the elemental.

The Golden Boy continues to sell himself on screen. At his prime, at his personal best, he is the very picture of power.

I want it.

**+.+.+.+**

"Ms. Swan!" Billy calls with a grin.

"Good morning, Billy."

"Off to the coffee shop?"

"Not today, Billy. I'm going to the Park."

"Changing things up, eh?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, just so happens I've got a quote for you."

"Alright."

"'In the morning a man walks with his whole body; in the evening, only with his legs.'"

I smile; this quote is one of my father's favorites.

"Ralph Waldo Emerson," I answer.

His grin drops into an instantaneous scowl. "You're cheating. I don't know how, but you're cheating."

"I'm not a cheat."

"That's what they all say."

"I'm serious," I insist. "Cheating is lying, and I don't lie."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No. Winning's only fun when you fight fair."

"Ah," he chuckles. "But then who decides what's fair?"

I smile.

**+.+.+.+**

"Hello, Isabella," Black calls as he walks out of his office. "I didn't know you came with your father today."

"Congressman Black," I greet, smiling.

"Oh please. Congressman Black was my father."

"Your father was a senator."

"Purists would argue that since Congress is comprised of both the Senate and the House of Representatives, members of both houses are technically Congressmen."

"But certainly we could take into account the public's perception of the word Congressman as chiefly pertaining to members of the House. Have you ever met a senator that insists on being addressed as 'congressman'?"

He shakes his head, chuckling. "I have not. But I'm not actually interested in arguing about political etiquette and forms of address. I just spoke with your father about you."

He has aides to chase me for him, but I do not mention that. "And?"

"And he mentioned your interest in working on the Hill. Why didn't you say something earlier? You know I'd love to have you on my team. You're an accomplished, intelligent woman. I could always use a mind like yours."

He's right about me, but he doesn't know that—at least, not first-hand. Jacob Black has spoken to me all of four times since we've met, and each exchange was spent making polite small talk while I pretended not to notice him staring down my shirt.

"Aren't you all staffed up?"

"I can always make room for you," he says with a wink. "What do you think?"

I am going to take the job.

"I'll think about it," I reply coolly.

"You'll _think_ about it?"

I nod.

He stares at me for several long seconds, looking like a puzzled dog, and every thought plays out across his features like a pantomime. He's thinking he has one of the most coveted intern posts in Washington. He's thinking about all the press his every speech garners, about how the media outlets fall and fawn all over him whenever he moves. He's thinking about the magazine covers, the young politicos aspiring to his image, the "Sexiest Man Alive" title. He's thinking about the world at his fingertips, Washington at his beck and call…

And me, thinking about it.

"I'll be in touch, Congressman," I say calmly.

I leave him in the hallway and I do not look back.

**+.+.+.+**

Cold, my mother called me, but I did not feel it,

until

now.

The flames I've found in him, in having him, have died into smoldering embers, the inferno devolved into the carcass of a campfire.

I will stay away, I remind myself, disliking the break in my routine, even as I realize its necessity.

But now, for the first time, I am cold, through and through.

The sun beams down upon the silvered towers of Manhattan, unfiltered by the cloudless sky. It is a beautiful morning, a wonderful day to walk down to the coffee shop.

But I mind my purpose, and stay away.

**+.+.+.+**

"Black said he spoke to you about a job yesterday, Bella," my father says around a mouthful of Bo Luc Lac.

"Yes?"

"'Yes' nothing. I put myself out there to let him know you were interested in working with him. The least you can do is try it."

"I'm taking the job."

He frowns. "You are?"

"Yes."

Father chews his food thoughtfully, giving me a long look. "I'm glad to hear that," he says finally. "It'll be good for you to find something you like."

I nod, because I have found something I like, and its relation to politics is only incidental.

"I'll call him and let him know the good news," Father declares. "He'll be glad to hear it… he was a little put out when you didn't accept right away."

"Always giving those boys a run for their money," my mother remarks with a smirk.

Her joke falls flat. Father and I continue eating as if we'd never heard her.

Dinner is finished in silence.

**+.+.+.+**

By Wednesday, the cold is inescapable.

This is the longest I've gone without seeing him since I found him in Apotheke.

The absence of him is maddening.

My addiction rears her head, furious at my discipline, shaking and demanding the warmth of him. Go take him again, she roars. A call to the car service and you'll be there. In twenty minutes you can be at his door.

She reminds me of the bestial glint in his eye as I pinioned his wrists with my hand.

Of the feeling of belonging, of owning.

Of the taste of his throat, his lips.

Of the sound of my name on his voice…

Bella, he breathed, and the sound was a song….

Warm us on his skin, my fingers cry plaintively. We are frozen.

"No!" I scream, and my voice echoes off the faces of my condescending walls.

And then there Is only my breathing, harshly keeping time to my racing pulse.

Patience, I repeat.

_Carpe diem_, she rebuts.

"There is a plan," I whisper defiantly.

But no one is there.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'm sorry we had to cancel our appointment last week," Dr. Cope says apologetically. "I was down with the stomach flu."

"Sounds terrible."

"Do you remember what we talked about last time?"

"Yes."

She looks at me expectantly. "And?"

"You'll need to be more specific with your questions, Doctor. I'm not a mind reader."

"No," she muses, tapping her pen against her lips. She smiles at something secret. "No, Isabella. I don't suppose you are."

I do not like her tone.

"Tell me this, Isabella: as someone who is not a mind reader, you seem to possess a vast amount of personal information regarding the men in your life."

"Yes," I reply coldly. "But that isn't a question."

"How do you do it?"

"The same way anyone does anything well. Time, effort. Discipline."

"You speak of it almost as if it's a hobby."

"A hobby is any consistent activity done in one's leisure time for pleasure."

"You have a lot of leisure time, I presume."

"Presume away."

There is silence as she stares at me.

"So," she sighs after a moment. "Time. You have plenty of time."

"Yes."

"But that's not the only reason, is it?"

I look at her sharply.

"You're driven by something else, Isabella. What I'm trying to figure out right now is what it is."

"It's my nature," I shrug.

"We'll agree to disagree."

I shrug.

"Last time we spoke about Jacob Black, do you remember?"

"Yes."

"Your father says that the incident with Mr. Black was not the first time this has happened, that this has happened with three men. Is that true?"

"It's true."

"Tell me about the others. Tell me about…" she glances down at her notes. "Tyler Crowley."

**+.+.+.+**

My mother's eyes are always searching me, alternately seeking and assailing what she sees; her stare as my father informs her of my impending move to New York is no exception.

"How many times have you done this?" she demands, turning on me. "How many others are there?"

"Renee. That's enough."

"I think we have the right to know, Charles. She can at least give us that. How many, Isabella?"

But I am silent.

"Answer me! How many married men have you… victimized?"

"Just the one," I reply dryly.

"Do you think this is funny?" she hisses. "These are people's _lives_, Isabella. If the media gets wind of this— this isn't _high school_ anymore!"

My father sighs heavily. "_Renee_."

"How many?" she asks again, ignoring him.

"How many what?"

"How many—" she sputters. "How many _men_ have you… have you _fixated_ on?"

"Three."

"_Only_ three?"

"Yes."

"And did you follow _them_ home? Did you break up _their_ marriages?"

"I've never broken up a marriage."

"Jacob Black—"

"Jacob Black is an arrogant, condescending, narcissistic asshole with a messiah complex and a congressional seat. Besides, his wife is staying with him."

"You seem relieved," she notes coldly.

"I am."

"I'd imagine you to be capable of many horrible things, were you to be so inclined."

"Everyone is," I reply. "But at least I don't pretend."

**+.+.+.+**

By Friday, it's been one week since I've seen him.

Tasted him.

Fucked him.

One week, I think in a loop. Seven days. One week.

A onceover in the mirror and I'm ready to go.

My stomach flutters, just barely, on the elevator down.

I'm disgusted at myself, at the tremor along my limbs. I'm no virginal schoolgirl. Even so, I will need the drive to Gotham Hall to regain control of myself.

Nothing matters, I tell myself, willing away the twitch in my bones and choosing calm. Follow the thread. That's all.

Everything but my mind hisses in derision.

It's been a week,

it's time to be warm again,

and I'm ready.

**+.+.+.+**

The Liberty Ball is hosted by the Sumeria Group and apparently features the talents of someone called DJ White Panda. The massive, gold-lit ballroom of Gotham Hall features a 120-foot ceiling with an ornate stained glass skylight and marble flooring. The grandeur of my surroundings threatens to swallow me, and I welcome it.

Cocktail hour is in full swing, and I move in and around the small champagne cliques that fill the main hall, a selkie back in her societal skin, a snake in the grass. The feeling of freedom, of fate rushes into my lungs like a kiss of life.

I glow with it, and search.

It takes me twelve minutes, but I spot him, resplendent in his tuxedo, tall and grave and handsome.

And her, beside him, golden and gracious.

My skin begins to hum. It's been one week, and I don't care who's standing next to him – I want him desperate.

**+.+.+.+**

I am hunched over in a chair in the middle of a dingy motel room, my bare legs freezing from the broken A/C unit and my hand locking with writing cramps.

"What are you writing about?" Jacob asks, lazy and naked in the rumpled bed.

"You," I reply.

**+.+.+.+**

As if she can sense my gaze, Tanya Denault looks across the room at me. Her eyes land on my face and she smirks. Beside her, Edward Cullen is engrossed in conversation with a short, fat man with no hair.

I smile back at her, sharky and sharp, showing as many teeth as possible. I am a threat, I convey with a look.

She looks away first, her perfect features furrowing in annoyance, as I walk closer, fingers loosely wrapped around my flute of champagne. Edward's eyes flicker up to mine as I approach, his mouth curving up, then down, conflict and confusion and something else, something dark.

And then I am there, and he is leaning in to greet me like I'm a friend.

"Edward," I greet politely, turning my head to allow him a kiss on the cheek.

"Isabella," is his courteous reply. His lips brush hotly against the skin too close to my lips to be appropriate before he stands back. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise."

He stares a beat too long. Beside him, Tanya coughs.

"Introduce us to your friend, Edward."

He does, pausing only when he remembers that he does not know my last name. He looks at me for help, and I only smile.

Tanya's eyes narrow.

"I'm so sorry," she says after introductions are made. "I didn't catch your last name."

"I didn't throw it," I quip, and the fat man beside her laughs.

"Isabella has had entirely too much fun stringing me along as I guess her identity," Edward says casually, but there is an edge to his voice.

Tanya laughs airily. "Living incognito in Manhattan? Oh my, Isabella. I do hope you're not hiding anything."

"Everyone's hiding something."

My voice is civil, but falls sharply on her ears; she is hard eyes and a pale face, mouth locked into a polite hybrid of grin and grimace. Beside her, Edward is examining me with a look of barely-concealed fascination, a young boy faced with the facets of a shiny, new thing.

"I'll agree with that," Fat Man exclaims. "I don't trust people with money."

"Eli," Tanya chides with a laugh. "You have more money than me and the Cullens combined."

"So I'm an expert," he rejoins, and there is more laughter.

Edward's surreptitious glances are subtle, but not as much as he'd like to think. I catch his eyes on one such pass and hold his gaze. Tanya, Eli and a few other young professionals aiming for the upper classes continue their banter, blissfully blind to the fire of confusion, frustration and lust in Edward's eyes.

I see you, I mouth silently, and his eyes narrow.

The fire is back, flames licking at my lungs, and I smile.

And walk away.

**+.+.+.+**

"I thought you could use another one of these," my father tells me quietly, pressing a small notebook into my hands as we stand in his study. "You're always writing or reading, and I know school's been pretty tough on you."

I take it from him, examining the cover. He says nothing for several long seconds, his gaze flicking awkwardly between the moleskine and my face. "It isn't for you to write in," he finally explains, every inch of him awkward.

"Then what?"

"I've already written in it. Just some quotes we both like. It's… it isn't anything much, but. Well." He shrugs. "Maybe you can rattle some of those off to one of your professors. Suck up a little."

"'You may send poetry to the rich; to poor men give substantial presents,'" I murmur, smiling.

"Marcus Aurelius," he answers.

**+.+.+.+**

My heels click and click and click, my steps a steady staccato across the marble floor as I walk, walk away.

There is a mass of people flooding into the ballroom but I continue upstream, waiting.

"Isabella!" he calls.

I do not stop.

**+.+.+.+**

I am winded, wide-eyed and weary and covered in filth when my father finds me.

"There you are!" he exclaims, catching my ten year old body as it crashes into him. "Bella—where on earth have you been?"

There are no words, I am unable to speak, to think, to feel anything but confusion and fatigue and a strange sense of euphoria as I burrow my face into my father's tuxedo-clad shoulder.

"Have you found her?" a man asks nearby.

"I've got her. I think she was stuck in the maze."

"Has she gone into it before?"

"No, not in the last four summers we've been here. We've always told her not to— Isabella, are you hurt?"

I shake my head no, but the trembling does not stop until Nanny Ilse strips me of my torn and tarnished party dress and puts me in the bathtub.

"Scrawny," she mutters, holding up my arm as I drip onto the bathmat. "You would not shake so much if you were not so little. Where on earth did you get the idea to go into the garden maze, child?"

"I… I wanted to see…" I struggle to say, my teeth chattering.

"Never mind," she interrupts soothingly, pulling a towel around my shoulders. "You can tell me about it tomorrow."

I never tell her about that night, but I neither do I forget it.

**+.+.+.+**

"Isabella, I know you can hear me," he calls loudly. "Stop walking."

I stop at the far end of the mezzanine, noting the door along the wall to my left. "Since when do you give the orders?"

"What the fuck was that back there?" he demands.

"Be more specific."

"You said 'I see you.' You mouthed it."

"I did."

"What the _fuck_ does that even mean?"

"I can't imagine there are too many ways to misinterpret those words." I push open the door beside us; on the other side is a much smaller room full of leather couches and chairs. "Let's talk in here."

"What did you mean by that?" He asks as he follows me inside, bristling. "Answer the damn question, Isabella."

"Don't speak to me like that," I say flatly, turning toward him. "Not ever."

He blinks. Stares. Breathes in, breathes out, and then: "Who_ are_ you?"

"I'm the only one in this building who knows what you are," I answer quietly.

He frowns. "What am I?"

"You already know what you are. I've already told you. You're bored. You're bored and you're lazy and you're mine. You think I don't know what it's like? To be surrounded by people who don't know, who can't know. Do you think Tanya knows you? She doesn't know anything. She knows she loves being seen with you, loves the idea of you two merging your bank accounts. She might even like it when you fuck her." I move closer, until I can feel the harsh, shallow puffs of his breath on my forehead. My hand reaches between us to find him, semi-flaccid, and I squeeze him. "But I see you. I know you. I know that you distract yourself with business, or with any one of those women out there in the ballroom. I know that you've spent your entire life hunting pussy for sport. And I know that I'm going to make you regret every single woman you've fucked before I found you."

"You're fucking insane," he rasps.

"Perhaps. But I know who I am."

He practically sputters, "And that makes you better than me?"

I shrug. "It makes me honest. I've never lied to you, Edward."

"Oh my god," he moans.

"But you've lied, haven't you? You've lied to me. You've lied to Tanya."

"Fuck."

"You're lying to yourself right now, aren't you? Telling yourself you don't want me."

"I don't. Not like this."

"Not when it isn't on your own terms, you mean."

"My own— _fuck_, Bella, I don't even know you!"

"When has that ever stopped you? You were perfectly fine with fucking me before, weren't you? At the fundraiser, in the coffee shop. Pretty, blank little Bella with her quiet and her cunt. So easy to project something onto an empty canvas, isn't it?"

"No... wait, it wasn't like that. I _liked_ you—"

"But you don't anymore?" I ask with a smirk.

He says nothing, panting, his hardening cock in my hand, his private school posture finally slumped into something real. This is the Edward Cullen I've dreamed of, broken and bewildered, his beauty brought down to earth. My sun god, grounded.

How refreshingly human, how warm. Achilles on his knees, bleeding from a browbeating.

"What do you want?" he asks in a low voice.

"You."

"What? My money?"

I laugh. "I don't need your money, Edward."

"Then what? What is this—"

"I want you."

"What does that even mean?"

I push on his chest, and he collapses onto the couch, dazed and defenseless. "You look lovely like this," I murmur. I lift my hand to stroke his jaw and he flinches away.

"Don't touch me."

"Do you think you can lie to me?" I whisper. "You want this. You want me."

"I wanted what I thought was you—"

"That's not real," I snap. "That's easy. That's what schoolboys send in Valentine cards. That's what fucking Britney Spears sings about." I sink with a sigh onto his lap, ignoring the way his frame stiffens further as I thread my arms around his neck. I lace my fingers in his hair and lean into him, pressing feather-light kisses along the edge of his lips, reveling in the way he exhales shakily against my mouth.

"Stop it," he protests weakly.

"I'll stop if you really want me to," I whisper against his cheek. "But you don't."

"Isabella," he says, and it sounds like a sigh.

"You belong to me," I whisper. "Whether you want to or not. Look," I say, shifting against the prominent hardness in his lap. "On some level, you know. You must know." I nip at his jaw. "How could you not?"

He does not relax, but his hands tremble as they cling to my hips. I feel each fingertip press into me. Desperate, they cry against my skin. We are desperate.

My own hands caress him, a calming hand on quivering skin, clamoring for his warmth, echoing the cry.

"You love your little-boy Valentines, don't you?" I murmur. He groans. "You're going to love me." I roll my hips against him. "You already love when I fuck you."

A strangled, "Please" is his only response.

"Please what, Edward?"

He shakes his head. His erection twitches against me.

He's desperate.

That's two of us.

"'Be Mine,'" I say into the skin under his jaw. "That's a Valentine, isn't it?"

"Fuck..."

"Is that a request?"

He nods.

"In a minute, then. First, there are a few things we need to clarify."

"Like what?" he groans.

"Like this," I answer, reaching between us to grab his erection. His hips thrust up, a reflex, into my hands. "I'm not sharing it with anyone."

He nods again. "Okay."

"You'll also stop asking me personal questions."

"Why?"

"Because they're unnecessary. You don't need to know my last name to know that I own you." He stiffens, and I laugh. "You'll get used to the idea."

"What about you?"

"Excuse me?"

"What about you?" he repeats breathlessly. "Am I supposed to share you?"

"Hm. What if I said yes?" I ask, rolling my hips into him, loving his response.

"Then I'd kick the other guy's ass," he moans. "Fuck, you feel good."

"Save your energy," I whisper against his jaw. "I'll be yours."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	13. Seeketh Only Self to Please

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Lay Your Sleeping head, my love,

Human on my faithless arm:

Time and fevers burn away

Individual beauty from

Thoughtful children, and the grave

Proves the child ephemeral:

But in my arms till break of day

Let the living creature lie,

Mortal, guilty, but to me

The entirely beautiful.

[W.H. Auden, "Lullaby"]

+.+.+.++.+.+.+

"'A false sense of security,' Michael Meade once wrote, 'is the only kind there is.'"

Eight hundred men and women, bright-eyed and business-professional attired, listen with rapt attention as my father, the Capitol Hill colossus himself, waxes eloquent on the How to Control the World. Impressed by the scale of the engagement, I watch from the wings with members of my father's staff.

"For this reason," he proclaims, silhouetted against the colors of the American flag. "It is imperative that you be of one mind and many eyes. Do not let your guard down, do not assume the best, do not trust your opponents, and above all – above _all_ – live vigilantly, always."

When I am older, I will look back in wonder at how clearly I can remember my father's words, and how egregiously I once forgot them.

**+.+.+.+**

"Good god," Edward gasps, limp and spent and clutching me to his chest. "I can't feel my fucking legs."

I smile, kiss his neck and murmur kindnesses against him.

Yours, I told him, claimed him and took him into me. Now, I stand up from his lap, ignore his moan as he slips out, smile at his grimace as he disposes of necessities, tucking his tender flesh back into his pants.

Worries be over, I think, and run my thumb across the stress line that furrows across his forehead. He stares up at me, focusing on my features like there are ancient answers in my skin.

"If you have something you'd like to say, Edward, then say it."

He narrows his eyes as they dart away from my lips to meet my gaze.

"I want to know what you're thinking," he says, the corners of his lips curling upward.

I could tell him of the satisfaction of the hard-earned soreness between my thighs, or of the bored young boy behind his eyes, or of the predictability of his submission, or of the time and time and time I've spent waiting for him to be in front of me, looking at me, exhaustion and a subdued exhilaration in his features.

But I do not answer him.

His eyes focused, dilated, black chasms circled with the green and gold and grey of his irises, captivating in their brilliance.

Down the rabbit hole, something whispers, and I frown.

"I think you should return to your party."

"It's not my party," he grouses, standing up and fastening his fly. "Jesus, look at my pants."

"You can't straighten out the wrinkles by pulling on the fabric, Edward. No one's going to notice."

He sighs. "They'll notice when I'm not there. Let's go."

I stare at him. "Isn't Ms. Denault waiting for you?"

"'Leave with the one you came with,' huh? What the hell happened to not sharing?"

I shrug. "It's only dinner."

He moves closer to me, and I can smell the faint hints of his cologne mingled with sex. "And what if I'd rather leave with the one I fucked during the party?"

"I fucked _you_," I reply, smiling coldly.

Edward laughs.

I straighten my dress, stiffen as he kisses my hand.

And we leave together.

**+.+.+.+**

The letter I receive from my father is typical: no real news from home, a summary of the candidate field he's been given to work with, an exhortation to make good grades, best friends and a good decision regarding college, and his love.

_I know that you're a person who likes her solitude,_ he wrote. _But I wish you'd find someone to be friends with. No man wants his child to live in self-imposed isolation._

I read the letter with something like a wistful smile before replacing it in its envelope and shoving it into my Versace messenger bag with the rest of my mail. The bleachers are empty except for me, and the sounds of lawn sprinklers and yelling from the soccer players is the mundane soundtrack to the first semester of my junior year.

"Crowley!" Coach Modeste yells. "Eye on the ball!"

My eyes dart to the tallest player on the field, his Phillips Academy practice jersey drenched with sweat as he frowns, looks away from me. So timid. Such a gentleman.

Nerves and expectation, I lick my lips.

"Swannie!" Bree calls, climbing the bleachers to me. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Here."

"Watching Tyler again?" she laughs. "You stalker, you. Has he noticed you yet?"

"Of course he's noticed me," I reply irritably. "He wants me. He just won't say anything."

"Brian told me Crowley's still a virgin."

I nod.

"So he's probably too shy to say anything to you. Ask him out."

It's not a date that I'm after, but I don't tell her that.

"Good luck breaking him in, though. I've heard he's hung like a fucking racehorse. Hey, are you coming out tonight? We're all going into town."

"I'm busy," I reply absently. "Maybe next time."

"You're so weird."

Tyler's eyes are on me again, and I smile.

"Maybe," I reply absently. "But at least I'm never bored."

**+.+.+.+**

"Do you have a car here?" Edward asks.

"Of course I don't. We'll take a cab."

"Wait… I'll text my driver. He'll be out front shortly."

I freeze.

I'm not going anywhere near his car.

"I'm taking a cab," I inform him.

"What?" he laughs, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he says slowly. "May I ask why?"

"Of course."

He rolls his eyes. "And would you answer if I did?"

"Of course not."

**+.+.+.+**

"Do you have any female friends, Isabella?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I stare at her. "Women don't like me."

"And why is that?"

"I'm too direct. I don't cushion my words. I don't care for small talk."

"And that's why women don't like you?"

"It's a start."

"Mmhm. Have you ever had a close female friend? Someone you trusted?"

"When I was younger."

"But none since then."

"No."

She hums thoughtfully. "Would you say that you don't trust women, then?"

"I don't trust anybody."

She frowns at me over her notepad. "No one at all?"

I shrug, fighting the urge to recoil from what I see in her eyes:

Pity.

**+.+.+.+**

It's a quiet Monday evening when his doorman lets me in, and one elevator ride later Edward's hands are back on my skin.

"I've been waiting all day for this," he moans against my mouth.

I let him take me against the wall, laughing as he thrashes against me, pummels me with his pale hips.

"You're mine," I whisper, biting into the smooth skin of his shoulder, desperate as I come, and he moans his assent.

**+.+.+.+**

"Are you journaling again, Isabella?" Dr. Cope asks. I frown, and she looks meaningfully at my bag, at the worn-looking moleskin protruding from the top. With a sigh, I rearrange it so that it does not show.

"I'm sure you know that's a positive step. Journaling is a very useful tool in figuring out one's thoughts and feelings." She pauses. "I'd very much like to read what you journal. Someday."

"I'm sure you would."

"Is there any chance at all that you'd let me?"

"No."

She cocks her head to the side. "Is there something in there that you think would shock me?"

"You'd have to understand it to be shocked."

"And you don't think I would?"

"I know you wouldn't."

"Why is that?"

"Because you wouldn't," I reply testily.

"You'll never know if you don't let me try." Her next words are careful, but I still cringe. "I'm not your mother, Isabella."

"Ask the rest of your questions so I can leave," I snap.

She regards me quietly for several long seconds, but silence and scrutiny are old friends and I do not look away.

**+.+.+.+**

A Thursday evening, and Edward answers his door with a wan face and prominent dark circles beneath red-rimmed eyes.

I have spent eleven evenings here with him so far, and he has never looked this haggard.

"Are you ill?" I ask, frowning.

"No. Come in."

"You don't look well."

He looks at me, huffs a derisive laugh. "It's been a rough week."

I smirk. "Something keeping you up at night?"

"No, you're not the problem. Not all of it, anyway."

My eyes narrow at that, but I motion for him to continue.

"It's just work. And my family."

"Both? Don't you work for your father?"

"Yeah." He frowns. "I told you that?"

"It's not exactly a secret," I shrug, avoiding his question. "And I believe your father enjoys a bit of notoriety in the right circles."

"Yeah, well." He sighs. "My father's so-called notoriety isn't something I normally like to discuss."

"You're right. I could be using your mouth for other things."

The exhausted lines of his face break into a grin.

**+.+.+.+**

The halls of Philips Academy are practically deserted, void with the vacancy of the Saturday morning before Christmas break. My voice echoes down the hall over the sound of his footsteps: "Tyler!"

All six feet and three inches of Tyler Crowley jerk in surprise, and he turns around. He sees me immediately, but my presence in the boys' hall only seems to confuse him more.

"Swannie?" he asks, frowning.

"Come here."

He comes, all apprehension and anticipation and _ripe_, and it's been months and god I'm so ready and I just to finally do something about it.

"What are you doing—" he asks, and I tug him into the room and close the door.

"You know what I'm doing," I say my hands going for the buttons on my shirt. "Help me."

"Help you what?"

"Take off my clothes."

"Swannie—"

"Don't call me that. 'Swannie' is for babies and old ladies. I'm seventeen, I want you, and you're going to be my first. Call me Bella."

He freezes. "Your first—?"

"That's right," I interrupt, shrugging off my shirt and reaching for his belt. "Don't believe everything you hear."

"But—Sw—Bella. I'm on my way to… I was going to drive home last night but—"

"But you have to meet with Coach Modeste today. I know." He stands, still and dumb, as I unfasten his pants and pull them down his long, muscled legs. "This won't take long."

In spite of his protests, he's tenting his boxers, shame and insecurity in the lines of his body. I grin.

"You want me," I whisper, kissing the skin beneath his belly button, hoping he can't hear the tremor in my voice. I am a kitten playing dress-up, a foal at the Derby, but experience has taught me the folly of insecurity. "This isn't wrong if you want me."

At my words, whatever trance he is in vanishes.

His large hands reach around my ribs to pick me up, turn me around, set me on one of the stripped twin beds. I watch as he reaches beneath my skirt, beneath the cotton panties that are wet enough to make him grunt.

Men only want one thing, my mother's voice echoes in my head. Tyler's eager face fills my field of vision, and all I can think regarding my mother's warning is this:

God, I hope so.

**+.+.+.+**

A Sunday evening, and Edward's insistent questions coupled with my evasion continue to grate on him.

He turns into me, backs me against the wall, his mouth against mine. My hands come up to cup his jaw, pull him back and he scowls.

"_Now_ you want slow down?"

"Disrespectful," I chide, lightly popping his cheek.

He catches my wrist, holds it out beyond us. "Stop that."

"You're not the one in charge here," I snap, my free hand reaching for his throat, fingers pressing, pressing into his pressure points there.

He curses, unhands me and we stand, staring. I notice the slump of his shoulders, as if the chains in which I've secured him are real.

"There's a lot I don't know about you," he says after a moment.

"You know what you need to know."

"Says the woman whose last name is still a secret."

"Don't," I warn.

"Give me _something_, Isabella. How old are you?"

"I'm not discussing this."

"You don't seriously expect me to keep doing everything you say, do you?"

"I do," I reply plainly.

"What's in it for me?"

"I believe I've already demonstrated what you get when you're good."

He frowns, memories flashing across his face like light off a prism. "Tell me you're legal, at least."

I smile. "It's a bit late for that, don't you think? But I'm of age. Don't worry."

"Are you married?"

I stare at him, incredulous.

He sighs heavily. "This can't last if you never answer any goddamn questions."

"I'm only guaranteed the here and now, anyway." He pulls his head back, and I am looking into his eyes. "And sometimes, the answers we think we want only confuse us."

Inhale, exhale, blink and repeat.

"You're trouble," he finally breathes after several long moments of silence.

"'Trouble is the common denominator of living. It is the great equalizer,'" I quote.

"Doesn't mean you should wish for it."

I grin wickedly, pull him down close enough to nip at his jaw. "Maybe it means you should _beg _for it."

"I've done enough begging for sex from you to last me a lifetime," he replies, fuming. I can see something weary in his eyes, a beast forbearing to its breaking point.

"Let's hope not," I say, and lead him to his bed.

**+.+.+.+**

"We haven't discussed Mr. Cullen lately," Dr. Cope notes. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Last night."

"Mmhm. And were you following him?"

"No. I was invited."

"Invited where?"

"To his apartment."

Her frown is stunning in its intensity. "His apartment."

"Yes."

"And are you over… at his apartment often?"

"Every night."

"For how long?"

"Almost three weeks."

The ensuing quiet is all-consuming.

"Isabella," she begins, care and caution heavy in her tone. "Are you _seeing_ him?"

"I've always seen him."

"But now _he's_ seeing _you_?"

"Not yet," I reply evenly. "But he will."

**+.+.+.+**

A Sunday evening, and I milk Edward dry, clenching and coming and reveling in the sight of the straining tendons in his neck as he arches back against the pillow.

He is clingy after, his arms roping me to the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest. I let him hold me, let his lips move slightly against my hair.

"Stay," he murmurs.

"You know better than that," I chide, stroking down his chest.

We stay entwined, body to body, until I am ready to leave.

"I think... you're my favorite thing," he murmurs when I move off of him, and he is Samson, his sleepy grin a symptom of the willingly unmanned.

I say nothing and turn away, but my hands tremble as they refasten my blouse.

**+.+.+.+**

"You can't tell anyone," Tyler breathes, yanking his own shirt off and laying me down. He covers my virgin body with his own eagerly, a dumb young thing with a big cock and fumbling fingers. "My parents… religious…"

He expends a little effort to get me ready for him, whispers an apology into my neck, lines himself up and it will hurt but I don't care, I don't care, I don't care…

"Ah!" I cry as he pushes into me. He stills at the sound.

"I'm sorry," he says, and repeats it again and again.

"Keep going," I reply, my voice pain and ice and rapture.

He does, and there is a sting with every breath, but there is also exhilaration as I fly with each moan and stab of him because gone, gone, gone is the girl I once was, the captive coward who watched men hunt and take and smile and charm.

I am a woman now, no longer the untouched innocent, no longer a pair of eyes watching, waiting her turn. I've tasted the fruit, bitter though it may be, and I will taste it again and again and again.

There is one face I want to see on the body pounding into me, and I squeeze my eyes shut and think, think, think—

Tyler comes quickly, moaning about tightness and wetness and he'll do better next time.

And then there is the crash,

a yell as we're discovered,

a flurry of motion as I am covered and chastised

and conveyed back home with a severely worded letter from the administration for my parents.

Mother flushes with anger, and father with embarrassment, but the only disgust I feel is for my world and its ways, as the tedium of expectation continues to make itself felt on my pale, frail shoulders.

**+.+.+.+**

A Wednesday evening, and the smell of us is heavy in the air as moonlight silvers the white of his flesh through the bedroom window.

"My sister wants to meet you," he announces in a matter-of-fact tone.

My head turns sharply. "Why?"

"Why not?" he shrugs. "She's curious about you."

"She knows about me?"

"I told her I'm seeing someone, yes." He sees my frown. "Is there a problem?"

This is unexpected, and I am not perfect but I am rarely wrong and this... this...

My words are halting, slow. "I didn't know you would do that."

"Pardon my presumption," he replies sarcastically. "I assumed that we were exclusive after you practically threatened to cut my dick off if I look twice at anyone else."

I tense at his tone, and my stony silence seems to unnerve him.

"Look—I mentioned you, and she's curious. Apparently, I never talk about who I'm seeing. Of course, I've never let a crazy girl half my size beat the shit out of me in bed before either." He smirks at my glare. "That was a joke, by the way."

"Edward, I'm not meeting your sister."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I'm not your girlfriend."

"You're here every night. We're not fucking anyone else. I _like _you. What the fuck do you want from me?" he growls, impatience in every inch of him. I dig my nails, drag them down his neck leaving a mark of me.

"Watch your tone," I warn.

"Isabella," he protests.

"All I want is you and my freedom. And I already have both."

"Your freedom?" he frowns.

I nod. "Yes."

"So, what is this, then? Are we exclusive fuck-buddies?"

My eyes flash him a warning, my nails pressing into him again. "You're being rude."

"You're being ridiculous."

My hand flies, grabs his chin, pulls him down to face me.

"Don't speak to me like that. I'm not going to apologize for what I want."

He is stone-still beneath my hand, his eyes hard. "Will you ever want more?"

I am silent for a moment, a series of moving images flashing across my mind's eye: domesticity, predictability, two-sink bathrooms, tragically tight smiles, a home in the Hamptons, a ring on my finger, a swell in my belly, a staff to clean the penthouse and put a roast in the oven each night. Dinners in the city with his colleagues, his former fucks. Cold brunches spent staring at one another with open resentment. And boredom.

Above all, boredom.

Every bit of that life seems a shackle, another lock to keep me in a different kind of cage.

"No," I reply, releasing his jaw. "Although I can't imagine that will a problem for you, seeing as you've already slept your way through Manhattan."

He says nothing for a few long moments; curious, I turn to look at him.

For the first time since Apotheke, I cannot read his face.

**+.+.+.+**

Dr. Cope sits, silent and shell-shocked.

And when she speaks, I am no longer the only cold thing in the room.

"Have you ever lied to me, Isabella?"

I freeze.

"Once," I say flatly. "But only once."

"What about?"

I do not answer.

"I hope you appreciate that I'm not quite sure what to say to you right now." She sighs, takes off her glasses and gives me a hard look. "This man has no idea who you really are. He doesn't know your history with men, or the fact that you've fixated on him for so long."

"No one's getting hurt."

"This will not end well, Isabella."

"You don't know that," I snap.

"I know what you tell me. I also know that your father has given you very clear boundaries regarding your behavior with men." She sighs. "I'm not quite sure how to tell him about this."

"You can't tell him," I say hotly, my chest constricting around the words. "I won't waive my right to confidentiality."

"I'm afraid we're a bit beyond the ethical demands of my profession, Isabella. Your father sent you to me with very clear instructions and he expects me to protect you."

"Don't tell him," I repeat, and it's the closest I've ever come to begging.

Uncertainty and a resurgence of that damned pity are evident in her eyes.

Run, my mind hisses at me.

Run away.

A flash of him gone, a redux of the box in my coat closet with a different return address and betrayal in a green gaze…

And now I feel it:

Fear.

**+.+.+.+**

Leave him alone, Dr. Cope says.

Leave him alone, and your father won't know.

And she would not bend further.

So here I shiver, cold as ever, as the Park grows darker, deserted.

Blocks away from here, he is expecting me,

and I will go.

And I will let him go.

Because I have a theory that goes like this:

Nothing matters, really.

You can play your part, or not.

You can love, or not.

Either way, you exist.

Either way, you choose.

And I've picked my poison, yes—

But now, more than ever, I choose solitude.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	14. The Close of the Day

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Are you the new person drawn toward me?

To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;

Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?

Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction?

Do you think I am trusty and faithful?

Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant

manner of me?

Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?

Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?

[Walt Whitman, "When I Heard at the Close of the Day"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Jacob Black is not a restrained or subtle lover, letting loose a string of voluble curses as I ride him to exhaustion on top of the filth and the creaks of a dirty motel mattress.

"Fuck me," he cries. "Fucking hell… oh baby, fucking hell, fuck!"

I dig my nails into his chest, slam down on him harder.

"Shit! Your pussy is so tight… fuck… fuck… fuck… yeah—"

"Shut up," I hiss. He's big, and he's mine and I'll come, but his steady stream of adult film lines annoys and distracts me.

"Fuck," he continues to groan. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—ow!"

His hand flies up to where I've slapped his mouth, his eyes wide.

"What did I tell you?" I grind out, pushing my palm to his lips. "Shut the fuck up."

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he mumbles against me, his voice shaky as I tighten around him.

While he is underneath me, he is no longer the idealistic congressman, the star of cable news channels, the bold new voice of the House of Representatives. I've stripped all of him away.

Instead, I fuck the opportunistic asshole that married for money and has sizeable campaign contributors in three well-known organized crime families. He's the man who watched, enraptured, as I sucked his wedding ring off his finger before pulling his face between my thighs.

He's the man who babbles like a bitch when I wind my fingers through his hair and force him to make promises we both know he won't keep.

I'm leaving her, he gasps.

You're the only one, he hisses.

"You… you're the most important thing to me," he wheezes now, his eyes rolling back as I slam down on him. "Fuck, baby!"

Miracle of miracles, I muse; the man beneath me manages to somehow be both ruthless and gutless.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and focus on the feel of him.

When I come, I curse him.

He shudders into me violently, pussy-whipped puppy love.

"Don't ever leave me," he moans into my palm, oblivious to my smirk.

**+.+.+.+**

My mother loves her afternoon garden parties.

Away from the warning, curbing glances of my father and his staff, she is herself - still on display, always on display, but unfettered by the politicking of The Kingmaker. She welcomes and hosts and entertains, navigating her social circles with the poise and power of a high-wire performer, beauty and grace and control personified as she stands, seemingly suspended, in the glittering cosmos of society.

There on our garden terrace, safe in the sepia tones of the sunlight, the severe angles of The Kingmaker's haughty consort relax into something softer. Surrounded by women of her ilk and the lush verdure of sharply landscaped lawns, I can sometimes see Renee Higginbotham, of the Beacon Hill Higginbothams in Boston, who was able capture the attention of Charles Swan.

I see this woman only briefly during garden parties, for I am always left to my own devices with the other children, relegated to an area of a massive lawn that is far enough away to prevent our noise from disturbing their conversation.

Behave, the nannies would scold if we grew too loud. Behave. Children, after all, are such _noisome_ lifestyle accessories.

We play tag, or hide and seek, or other games to pass the time until we are summoned in turn, for propriety's sake, to showcase for the other mothers the many skills our illustrious educations provide us.

"Your mother wants you, _Liebchen_," Ilse informs me during one such fête, and I obediently go to the terrace.

There, with her wealthy confrères, Renee Higginbotham of the Beacon Hill Higginbothams awaits.

"Isabella," my mother says warmly when she sees me. "I was just telling everyone about how well your French lessons have been coming along now that you have Mademoiselle Jacqui."

I nod.

"_Vous êtes une belle fille_, Isabella," Mrs. Masen says kindly. "_Est-ce que tu me comprends_?"

"_Oui, Madame_," I reply. "_Mais je continue à apprendre_."

Mrs. Masen smiles at me. "Your accent is very good."

"Please, Esme," my mother huffs indignantly. "Her head's big enough as it is."

"Say something else!" one of the other women exclaims, her round face a mass of lipstick and botox.

"_Après moi, le déluge_," I recite quickly.

"Her accent _is_ good," one of the other women remarks. "What was her tutor's name?"

But my mother ignores the question, bestowing upon me a hard look cushioned only by whatever's in her glass and the fringe of her still-beautiful eyelashes.

"That's a quote, darling," she says evenly. "We would like to hear you say something original."

"It's a quote?"

"Yes," mother replies, her eyes leaving mine only briefly before resuming their scrutiny of my face. "Isabella loves famous quotes. I'm afraid it's a quirk she's acquired from her father.

"What does the quote mean, Isabella?" someone else asks.

"'After me, the deluge.'"

"Oh! Yes," one of mother's friends – a tall pencil of a woman who insists that her friends call her 'Bitsy' – interjects excitedly. "Louis XV said that."

Murmurs of 'Very good, Bitsy' make the rounds.

My mother is about to dismiss me to return to the lawn, I can see it in the lines of her mouth.

"Some people think Madame Pompadour said it," I announce.

Bitsy frowns. "Who?"

"Madame Pompadour," I repeat. "The king's mistress."

There are nods and vacant smiles, and then a muttered remark and scattered titters, but my mother's stony silence is louder than everything else.

"Go play now, dear," she commands, and her voice is sweet enough to sting.

**+.+.+.+**

"Will you ever want more?" Edward asked me, appealing to my control, although his gaze was a mutiny.

Control, control, control.

I am not weak, and I do not weep or want for things I cannot have.

I am not _her_.

I repeat the words out loud, and they disappear as quickly as I utter them, dissipating into the night air with the vapor of my breath.

Step, step, step and another step and keep walking.

Leave him alone, Dr. Cope ordered. Leave him alone and your father won't know.

I am Artemis, about to release my game back into the wild.

Men only want one thing,

and I want quite another.

But now I'll give it up.

We don't need him, hisses the whisper between my ears. It's better this way. He's just like the others.

Yes, I silently assent.

Step and then step again.

There is a tightness in my muscles that will not go away; it grows, goes down to my bones and calcifies around the space behind my lungs.

The frigid air caresses my face, rakes at my throat as I inhale; it's also what is making me shiver, I think, and that lie is cold as well.

Several empty cabs pass me, but the cold is companion enough for now.

I keep walking.

**+.+.+.+**

There are few people with the ability to make him laugh, and so I am astonished when my father's stern face breaks, again and again, into a grin that transforms his expression from something powerful to something pleasant.

Carlisle and Esme Masen have a childless marriage, my mother told Ilse, her horrified tone conveying the desolation of the Masens' plight. But the Masens do not seem desolate as they entertain my parents, Carlisle with his quick wit and easy, absent smile; Esme with her warm voice and white teeth. Her smile is polite as she listens to my mother, wider when my father laughs at Carlisle's stories.

I am not the only one who notices; my father's eyes increasingly find her face.

Beside me, my mother tenses, and I look at her in time to see her eyes narrow with suspicion and annoyance. The stones in her wedding rings glitter and gleam in the room's light, a warning beacon perched on tightly clasped and trembling hands.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward has ordered dinner, and there are lit candles scattered liberally throughout the dining room. Behind him, the fireplace crackles and hisses with heat, with light.

"I suppose I should tell you that I'll no longer be seeing you after tonight," I say calmly.

The moment I've walked toward is here and now and happening, as the words fall from my mouth, as Edward's eyes widen in disbelief, and then narrow in suspicion.

Control, control, control.

Leave him.

Freedom.

"Is that right?" he asks flatly.

I nod.

"You're not serious."

"I'm quite serious. I'm no longer interested in this…" I gesture toward him vaguely. "In continuing this."

His expression is a prism casting a dozen different emotions, each one fleeting until finally, finally his face is blank.

"Why?"

I shrug. "I'm bored, I suppose. It's time for me to move on."

"You're _bored_?"

"Yes," I reply, and I look him in the eye as I answer.

"Then why did you bother coming over? I'm sure you could have relayed this message to me some other way."

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Is that right?"

Again, I nod.

He comes closer to where I stand, close enough that the heat along my limbs has nothing to do with the fireplace.

His face is unreadable as he asks, "Are you leaving now?"

"It's a possibility," I reply, swallowing the breathy sound in my throat as he leans forward and down to press his lips against my jaw.

"What's the other possibility?" he murmurs into my skin.

He's still mine, I think. I'm still in charge.

He wants one more night, and I cannot see the harm in giving it to him.

And so my hands come up into his hair, his fingers dig into the slight swell of my hips, and I prepare to fuck him into the oblivion of a farewell.

**+.+.+.+**

There is a night when our house is alive with my mother's muffled shouts, and my seven year old ears can hear and understand only a few repeated phrases.

I'm your wife, she says.

You have a daughter, she says.

Don't leave, she says.

There is the occasional low rumble of my father's voice, but I cannot understand his words.

And then there is silence.

Minutes pass before the night is pierced with one final cry:

"Charles!" my mother screams.

There is only anger in her voice, but still I follow it, run through the hall and down the stairs and out the door and there she is.

I rush down the stone steps of the front entrance in time to see my father's car speeding down the tree-lined lane in front of our house as my mother, bent and weeping in her nightgown, collapses onto the gravel drive.

"What happened?" I ask, over and over, and my only attempt to touch her shoulder is met with a flinch.

She waves me away, choking on tears and mucous and the two words that fall out of her mouth with each breath.

"I'm ruined."

**+.+.+.+**

His breath is hot through my fingers as he presses his lips to my palm, presses my back to the wall.

"You're not really leaving," he states. "How could you leave this?"

You're nothing to me, I almost tell him, and he sees it in my eyes.

He smirks. "Keep telling yourself you're in control, if it helps. But you're in this as deep as I am."

His manner is too familiar, too intimate and in control and my lips part, my nails dig into him as I wonder how I will punish him for his cockiness, his calm.

"I am in control," I inform him coldly, raking my nails down the back of his neck. He hisses in pain.

"I could hurt you back."

"I'm a woman half your size," I retort. "Surely I'm too small, too weak to be considered a worthy opponent."

We stare at each other, mingling breaths and gazes and the hum of energy that snaps between us like a charge, a live wire, a white-bright, frightening thing. His eyes are green glass, brittle and brash, dilated and fixed on my own.

"Like a mirror," he breathes.

I open my mouth to demand an explanation, but his lips descend and the question is one more thing I will take care of after I'm done with him.

**+.+.+.+**

"Ilse, look at the sky."

My father is gone and my mother is useless, but I am still given the run of the house under the supervision of Ilse.

Now, my nanny's beleaguered visage obediently lifts itself from her book to look at the heavens, her ice-chip eyes squinting in the sunlight. "What am I looking for, _Liebchen_?"

"It's a lamb. See?" I point.

"Oh, yes," she says absently. "Very good."

"What else do you see?"

"Nothing else," she sighs, looking away from the clouds and affectionately patting my head. "Why would I look for lambs in heaven when I have one sitting on the ground in front of me?"

"I'm not a lamb," I scowl.

"Oh?"

"No. Lambs are stupid. Like the ones we saw the other day. They just stand there while the dogs run around and bark at them."

"There's not much for them to do about it, child. The dogs are faster and have sharper teeth."

"The dogs are _smarter_. I'd rather be a dog than a lamb."

"Little girls do not aspire to be _dogs_," she admonishes. "Dogs are filthy, stinky creatures."

"I want to be something strong. Like a bear. Or a tiger."

She hums thoughtfully. "A lion, I think," she says with a sigh. "If you must be something, be a lion. The lion is the king of the beasts."

"I don't want to be a lion. I'd rather be a lioness," I correct. "The _queen_ of the beasts."

"Every queen needs a king, Isabella."

"I don't. I'll be a queen by myself, and I'll eat lamb every night for dinner."

At that, she laughs, squeezing my scrawny frame to her chest and declaring that I am already a queen and need to eat more, anyway.

**+.+.+.+**

I am back in this bedroom, standing restless with him before me, readying to fit him inside and my fingers travel the expanse of his back as I plan, plan, plan one step ahead. I must choose which of his little defiances to ignore, and which to punish, and the concentration this necessitates is tiring; his demands strain the tenuous control I exercise; so far, I have not broken him.

Down the rabbit hole, carefully, carefully…

Tonight, a placation: I'll let him be on top.

Oblivious to the coil of my thoughts, Edward's hands and lips are everywhere, tongue and teeth and tasting me and I cannot help the speed of my pulse as it thrums like a tribal drum, heats my flesh and roars in my ears.

I am ready for him, impatient.

"Take off your clothes," I moan against his lips, wishing, willing him to be the man I first claimed weeks prior.

But he only breaks the contact of our kiss by shaking his head.

"No."

"No?" I repeat in a low voice, stilling against him.

"Ladies first," he counters.

There is the sudden crack of my palm on his flesh, the sting in my palm after striking, and his fingers fly up to massage his reddening cheek. He frowns, furrowing ire deeper into his skin.

"This slapping thing needs to stop," he growls.

"I'll stop when you fucking listen."

Obey, I demand with a look. Submit.

He does not blink or look away, staring down into my face with an expression somewhere between fury, amusement and hunger.

I see the challenge in him, prepare to prevail, and then—

And then—

he laughs.

And laughing still, moves quickly, reaches down, grabs my wrists and presses himself flush against my body. Wraps his arms around me. Pins my hands behind me.

Incensed, indignant, I try to pull away.

"Let me go," I warn.

But he only smirks. "Stop. Slapping. Me."

"I'll do worse than that if you don't fucking let me go."

"What's going to happen if I let you go? Hm? Are you going to smack me around some more?"

My teeth snap at his neck, and he laughs again.

"You said you own me. You said I'd get used to the idea. You told me that you're not just some bitch, you remember that?" he asks, grinning as I struggle to free my arms. "Remember, Isabella?"

"Yes," I spit angrily.

"Right. Yeah, well I've got news for you: I'm more than just some asshole you can bitch smack whenever I get tired of playing your little control games."

"You'll play or you'll lose," I snarl. "So help me—"

"You wanted me to work for it, didn't you?" he rasps, as the friction from our struggle brushes me against him. "You said you owned me."

I do, I want to say, but he continues.

"It's my turn. I'm in charge now."

I snarl at him once more, but he only smiles, again covering my mouth with a kiss.

**+.+.+.+**

**Y**our father's daughter, my mother laments, scornful and sad, as I remember the faint white cloud of limestone hovering behind his car as he drove away.

Away from us, from my mother.

My mother, who wails, weeps and waits for a reprieve from the sentence dealt.

"He'll take care of me, though, won't he?" she cries into the phone when she thinks I cannot hear. "He can't cut me off completely."

There is sympathy carved in soft, sorry lines on the faces of the staff, and each one of them attends to my mother's every wish with the tact and compassion of an undertaker.

She may still have money, but she will disappear without my father's name and they know it.

And so I am my father's daughter, I realize. My father, whose goodwill suspended the fates of so many, and whose whimsy can destroy my mother's universe.

"Men only want one thing," my mother sobs bitterly, vowing in the same breath that I will learn from her mistakes before I get married. Before I am like her: dour, depressed, dependent on the workings of a world that prides itself on propriety.

Pathetic, passionless prey.

I see what my future could be in the shadows of my mother's grey eyes, and I am cold.

**+.+.+.+**

After a failed attempt to knee him, Edward is behind me, hot breath on my neck, forearm and fingers splayed across my breasts as his other hand presses on my torso, presses himself against me.

"Can you be good?" he asks in a low voice.

Yes, I think. I can be a good, good girl.

My fingers flex into claws at my side, press underneath his shirt and into the skin over his ribs, and I revel at his quick wince and low whimper.

"Don't make me use the 'kitty likes to scratch' line," he quips. "I hate clichés."

"Then stop _being_ one," I hiss. "Does this feel good to you? The big strong man subdues a woman half his size?"

"You have no idea how good this feels," he replies smugly, thrusting once into the small of my back. "Or maybe you do. How does it feel to have the shoe on the other foot?"

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

He huffs a laugh into my hair and bites my neck, just enough to hurt.

"Is this the prim, pretty girl from the coffee shop? So violent," he teases.

The fire is jumping high now, an inferno with no constraint as my brain throbs and thrums and burns in shades of red, yellow, smoky grey and black.

I buck against him as his fingers find me dripping, my pulse aflame with rage and defiance and something else, something dark.

Something dark.

Something dark.

Something dark.

"You want this," he growls, and he sounds alive, brilliance and beauty and the brashness of a Mussorgsky tonal poem. His fingers pinch and prod, pain and pleasure and pleading, and I gasp

in agony

in exultation.

And the flames climb higher.

**+.+.+.+**

Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, was destined for greatness from birth, and she knew it, reveled in it.

And so, when her bathing was interrupted one day by a brash youth named Actaeon, she did not hesitate to strike him down.

It was no less than he deserved.

But I wonder, as I have wondered before—

Did she ever regret it?

**+.+.+.+**

We struggle, writhe, tumble onto the bed and my breath rushes out of my lungs as I land on my stomach, the bulk of him on top of me and I am weighed down, fixed and pinned as he brings my hands up, holds them on either side of my head.

"Are you going to be good?" he asks again, blunt, breathless, and I squirm at last, having gone down the rabbit hole to find the den of a cobra.

I bite at his forearm in front of me, barely nicking him, and then he moves quickly and there is the brush of fabric and the pulling of my panties...

And then he is there, he is pressing into me and there is grunting, groaning, gasping as he slides in, in , in and it's too late before I realize the noise is not coming from him alone.

Control, control, control, I think.

But it is nowhere.

Muscles clenched, I clamp around him as he moves and moves and moves and I hate him, hate him for overpowering, overcoming, lying over me, but his thrusts go deeper and our voices grow louder and the cold, the cold, the cold is gone and all that is left is the searing, soaring heat of him.

"You're just like me," he rasps into my ear.

"Fuck off," I snarl, shivering at the silk of his necktie along my naked back.

He ignores me, or doesn't, his hips pounding, insistent and persistent as one of his hands slides, down my arm and over my shoulder and up my throat and into my mouth. Two of his fingers pull at the corner of my lips and I am hooked even as he guts me.

I can feel the flames flickering even closer as they lick up my spine, into my throat and down through my limbs as every part of me locks and shakes and waits and finally, finally flies.

When I come, I curse him.

He moans his release against my neck,

and my breath on his hand is a benediction.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	15. Turn & Turn Around

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind,

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky

And the affrighted steed ran on alone,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

[Stephen Crane, "War Is Kind"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

There are battles, and there are wars.

His body stretches over me, his weight a foreign world, even as he braces himself on his forearms, languidly pressing his lips against my naked shoulders.

"Stay," he whispers. As if it's simple. As if he is just a man and I am just a woman from a bar who drinks White Russians and does not easily bend to his every whim.

I envy him this ease he has, the naïveté with which he sees me.

An echo of Cope's voice sounds in my head: this will not end well, Isabella.

Prone on his counterpane, slowing pulse and shaky hands, I breathe, "I'm leaving."

Then I watch, fascinated, as his fingers tighten around my wrists, as his breathing speeds in aggravation.

Captive, my own fingers twitch with the desire to take and take over. Turn around, my muscles hiss.

But still I stay.

"I've already told you," I continue, and my words are pebbles landing on the coil of a constrictor. "I'm done."

His lips press, kiss and curl back and I feel teeth, teeth nipping at my neck. He is slow, but he is not soft, he is not gentle. His body envelopes me, holds me and holds me down and for a moment I am not the hunter, I am the selkie and his fishmonger fingers grasp at the treasure of my skin.

"I'm leaving," I repeat, but my voice is not as cold as it once was and he knows it.

"You're a liar," he says softly. "You need this as much as I do."

I tense at his words, frozen remonstration – I am not a liar – but then

I remember what it will take to keep him.

Freedom, something inside cries. Run now. Run fast.

But my pulse protests, finding the honey, the heat, the languor of him quite agreeable.

Stay a little while, it moans, weak and wanton.

And so I am torn:

if I stay,

I will change, but

if I change

am I still in control?

Can I keep him, and

can I be kept?

The warmth of him presses me into the mattress as I think, and I am burdened, I am anchored.

"I want this," I admit. "But I do not need you."

"So you'll stay?" he murmurs against my skin, nonplussed, the hardness of him pressing against my backside. I don't have to turn around to know what he looks like: the sated, libertine businessman, tailored pants pooled around his calves; lean, well-muscled thighs tensing, relaxing as his hips begin to undulate slowly against my nakedness. He is ready again.

And he is still wearing his necktie.

He moves now, fingers leaving my wrists, arms sliding underneath me, snaking around my abdomen to hold my breasts, around my hips to press against the fever heat between my thighs. It is uncomfortable and torturously worth it when he begins to circle my clit.

My hands tense, clench, clutch the covers, and he exhales into my hair.

Itch and twitch and want and whining, whining in my head that this is power, this is control, this is taking him, even now, even beneath him.

"You're not done," he says, rough and low and mocking. "_We're_ not done."

Silent, I arch against him and do not argue.

I am where I want to be.

And will deal with the rest when at the end.

**+.+.+.+**

I wake up one morning to find my mother, blank and silent at the dining room table.

My father sits across from her, his face worn and drawn and tired after six weeks of silence.

She is stone and he is water, rushing back because this is home, of course this is home.

"Renee," he says quietly, but she does not look at him.

"Please," he says.

"I'm sorry," he says.

And still she remains, unmoving and unmoved as he speaks: a first, for my father does not beg.

For the first time, I witness something more to her stony face, her stoic posture. My father is back, repentant and remorseful – and she holds some of the power.

And then I am spotted in the doorway.

"Isabella," he smiles wearily, and I walk into his embrace.

There is tension, silent and suffocating; all I can hear is the muffled sound of movement from the kitchen staff in the next room.

"Are you back?" I ask him. "Are you going to stay?"

And he says, "Always."

**+.+.+.+**

"Good morning," he says, cocky and casual, and I open my eyes and hate my own confusion.

I am here, still naked, still in his arms, still in his bed, and morning sunlight pours through the windows and casts the room in whites and yellows. My eyes dart to the arm draped across my chest—the fine, light hairs on his forearm, the elegant, strong line of his wrist.

He has freckles, I realize.

And then the arm leaves and I am rolled onto my back and he is there, hovering over me, the light illuminating the golden lines of his shoulders, the auburn hues in his hair. He is beautiful.

And he is on top.

"Sleep well?" he asks with a smirk, and here is where his naïveté works against him.

"Let me up," I say firmly, and my voice is husky with sleep and hoarse from yelling my own release. He watches my hand as it travels up his arm, his shoulder, rests in the crook of his neck; his smirk grows into a grin.

"I don't think so. I like being in charge."

"Then get another girl," I snap, and dig my nails into the skin of his neck.

"Ow! What the fuck did I say about that?"

"You said no slapping," I note calmly, and dig deeper, exulting in his wince. "Now get _off_."

"I'm _trying_," he grinds out, rolling his hips against me. "Work with me, here."

My other hand reaches into his hair, stroking even as my nails begin to draw blood. He practically purrs at my touch…

… and tenses when I yank his head up by his hair, but I can feel him grow harder against my stomach.

"I'm not here to _work_ with you," I hiss. "Let me up."

He stares, picking his battles, and then sighs and moves slightly up, lifting an arm to let me escape.

I move, and am straddling his back in seconds.

"Lie down," I command coldly, clenching my thighs around his hips as he tenses, begins to roll over. "On your _stomach_."

There is only a second's hesitation before he does as I instruct.

"You gonna spank me?" he asks, steel and sarcasm; but I can hear the frisson of want in his voice.

I scoot down to straddle the back of his thighs and run my hands over the roundness of his ass. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"_You_ would," he retorts. "As I recall, you're quite fond of slapping me."

"You've earned it each time."

"You'll have to excuse me – it's not like you come with an instruction manual."

I roughly pinch the skin of his neck, luxuriating in his gasp, in the rocking motion of his hips as he rubs himself against the mattress, searching for some relief. "Cheeky," I sigh. "That's what got you slapped in the first place. And you're wrong: I've never understood the appeal of spanking."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhm." My hands circle the muscles of him, pressing, testing. "You're a runner," I state, lightly scratching down his ass with my nails.

"Yeah," he groans.

"You have a wonderful ass. Why would I spend my time and energy bruising it?" He doesn't answer, and I continue. "I know better ways to mark you."

"You're not sticking anything up my ass," he rasps, tensing again beneath me. "Don't even try it, or I'll… I don't—I'll use a safeword."

My laugh is sudden and genuine, ringing loud from my lips. I watch his profile, his mouth as it curves into a smile at the sound.

"I'm serious," he chuckles.

"Of course you are," I reply, patronizing him. Let him have his chuckle, I think.

I've never given him a safeword.

**+.+.+.+**

Under the watchful eyes of our teachers and peers, Tyler remains aloof, never speaking, barely looking, and hardly acknowledging.

But the silence only whets my hunger for his skin.

His eyes, blue as a sea, find me rarely, but when they do I see the storm inside. Stupid boy.

It's a Tuesday when Bree tells me of a weekend party off-campus. Hotel rooms will be involved. The soccer team will be there.

Of course I'll go, I tell her, and my plans are already forming.

**+.+.+.+**

"So," Edward says offhandedly, his muscles relaxed beneath my hands as I caress him. "You don't spank, and you sure as hell aren't sticking anything up my ass."

"Mmhm."

"But you'll mark me."

I smile at his confidence, at his dismissal. My hands slide up as I lean forward and begin pressing wet kisses down the long, graceful length of his back. "I will," I assure him.

"How—oh, you're killing me," he moans, still thrusting a small, steady rhythm into the bed. "At least tell me how."

"Where's the fun in that?" I tease, my eyes finding the spot of choice: the area just below one of his back dimples, the place where the taut swell of his buttocks begins.

I lick my lips, and

bend down, and

his howl as I sink my teeth into his skin is music.

**+.+.+.+**

"Am I the first guy that's ever been in here?" Jacob teases, his eyes taking in the art on the cream-colored walls of my bedroom.

"I'm sure you already know the answer to that."

"Well… I know what I'd like the answer to be."

"I wasn't aware congressmen operated on something as impractical as wishful thinking."

His laugh sounds hollow. "That's all congressmen operate on."

I make a noncommittal hum and sit down on the bed, watching him.

"This is an interesting piece," he notes, running his finger down the frame of the painting. "What is it, like Alice in Wonderland?"

"It's a hedge maze."

"Did you paint this?"

"Yes."

"What are these things in the middle?"

"Feathers."

"Uh huh. What about this…" he points to a figure at the entrance. "Is this a lion?"

"That's Ammut."

"Ah-moot?"

"An Ancient Egyptian demon."

"Right. So… what does it mean?"

"It means whatever you want it to mean," I sigh impatiently.

He frowns. "That's rather… vague."

"Many metaphors are."

"Hm." He looks uncomfortable, grasping, grasping for a change of subject. "So… how many boys did you sneak into your room, then?" he asks with an uneasy chuckle.

I shrug. "I didn't sneak them in. They managed well enough without my help."

"Uh huh." His brow furrows further, and I watch as he wanders around the room, lingering at the stack of moleskins on my desk. "What are these?" he asks, and I flinch as his fingers run down the cover of the topmost book. "Journals or something?"

"Something like that," I say shortly. "Don't touch those."

**+.+.+.+**

Control or no control, I cannot help my smirk whenever I catch the petulant expression on Edward's face as he moves about the room, getting ready for work. Silly, sulking boy.

"Stop pouting," I chide, stretching in his sheets like an indolent cat.

"You bit my ass."

"I did. And then I fucked your brains out. Stop complaining."

"You broke the fucking skin," he grouses. "It's going to leave a mark."

I shrug. "I told you it would."

"Yeah, well I'm damaged goods now."

I cock an eyebrow at him and he shrugs defensively.

"I am. How the hell am I supposed to change at the gym now?"

"Medical exams may be awkward now," I concede with a smile.

"Not to mention dating," he quips, and his voice is light but his eyes are sharp, watchful.

"Yes," I agree flatly.

His frown is gone almost as soon as it forms, but I get out of bed anyway. It is time for me to go.

**+.+.+.+**

As the weeks go by, Father Brewer's eyes lose the priestly sheen and begin to grow impatient. Annoyed. Frustrated. His mouth begins to purse at my blunt answers to his vague questions.

They teach them not to inadvertently show negative emotions at seminary, I'm sure of it. He wants me to see his aggravation.

"Isabella," he says shortly. "You claim that you feel freedom when you tempt Tyler into sin."

I roll my eyes at his phrasing, but answer honestly. "Yes."

"Don't you feel any remorse? Any guilt? You've taken something away from this young man – something he'd wanted to give to his wife."

"He was my first, too. Besides, it took very little persuasion, Father. All I had to do was take off my shirt."

His eyes flit down to my barely-legal breasts for the briefest second before they snap back up to my own. There is guilt and want and exhilaration in his gaze, and I feel it: that small rush of power, that slight tickle that builds at the base of my spine.

Ever the shark, I smile.

**+.+.+.+**

I am almost dressed, about to escape unscathed, when:

"I'd like to see where you live," Edward says suddenly.

He is in his closet, and the words are muffled but I understand them as I'm slipping on my shoe. I freeze, focus on breathing, plan and plan and one step ahead.

"It's better here," I reply carefully. "It's nicer."

He comes out of the closet holding two neckties. "Which one?"

"Red," I answer, crossing the bedroom to take it from his hand, loop it around the elegant column of his neck. My fingers work to tie him a double windsor, my eyes needlessly engrossed in the task to avoid looking up at him.

"I'm sure your apartment looks fine, Bella."

"It does. But I don't have visitors."

"Never?" he asks with a frown.

"Never."

He says nothing, looking down at my hands as they rest on his chest. I quickly remove them.

"So I'm the only one on whom you're currently… bestowing your affections?"

I pat his now-knotted necktie with a smirk. "Who said anything about affection?"

And then I feel his sigh more than I hear it.

The selkie skin as yet, as ever remains out of his grasp.

"Bella…" he begins, plaintive and hopeful and

I hear something in this voice that says:

he will push me for more.

I look at him as he sits down on his bed, expectant eyes and hunched shoulders, and I think I could break him right now.

A few choice words and several steps, and this would be finished and he's attached now, he wants something from me and he'll see what it's like to want, to want, to want something that sees you as nothing more than the means to an end.

If I leave, he will feel it,

and I revel in that knowledge.

Until I realize that he knows it, too,

knows that I may want nothing more to do with him,

and that my answer could very well ruin the strange light in his eyes,

and that I have the power,

and still—

and _still_—

there he sits:

vulnerable

and waiting for my words.

My mouth opens, and closes. At this moment, this moment I've seen before, I have no words for him.

Silence reigns.

I am still in control, I tell myself. Permission is mine to grant, or revoke.

And still,

he waits.

I open my mouth again and

ignore the way he smiles when I tell him yes.

**+.+.+.+**

"Ah!"

At Tyler's cry, my hand stills, my gaze running across the long, athletic lines of his back, his broad shoulders stretched across the width of the hotel mattress. "Relax," I tell him.

"Bel—Bella—" he pants.

"You wanted to walk around looking guilty," I snap. "So keep breathing and relax while I give you something to feel guilty about."

My fingers push forward, push into him, and I am nervous, energized, euphoric as he strains to hold still like a good boy.

"You have to relax, or it's only going to hurt more."

He nods quickly, breathing in and out and in and out my fingers go again and his gasp is only partly pain.

"Is it good?" I demand.

"Yes—yes… ah, oh—oh—oh—"

"Has anyone ever done this to you?"

"No—no—"

"Tell me you're sorry again."

"I'm sorry," he cries.

"Say it again."

"I'm sorry, Bella."

"Scream."

"I'm sorry!" he yells into the pillow. "I'm sorry!"

I smirk, and then my fingers are gone and my small hands are pale on his hips as I urge him over so I can sink back down onto him, and he is still the young, dumb thing that first took me but now his fingers know where to hold on as I fuck him.

I lean over him and he is lust and uncertainty as he eyes my breasts.

"Kiss them," I pant.

His lips lock clumsily onto my nipple, suckling like a newborn and whimpering against me.

"Don't ever ignore me again," I grunt above him. "Don't you ever fucking look away from me."

But my words are lost as I tighten around him, his head falling back onto the pillow like a deadweight.

"Tyler," I snap. "What the fuck did I just say?"

"Don't… don't ignore you… don't… I won't…"

It was easy, too easy to put him beneath me again – a look, a few choice words, my hand on his thigh as we sat in the vacant lot where our classmates worked on draining a keg and suddenly he was breathless and following me, hard and hot and eager and now his desperate eyes clench shut as I lean down, my mouth a breath away from him and he reaches to kiss me but my teeth are what he finds as they latch onto his lower lip and nip.

And then he comes, stupid boy, twitching and swearing and tensing beneath me, and his frantic moans are all I need to finish soon after.

**+.+.+.+**

"'_Every renaissance comes into the world with a cry_,'" Billy says as soon as he sees me. "'_The cry of the human spirit to be free._'"

His words stop me, and I stare. He sees my consternation and grins. "Well?"

"I don't know that one," I say, and the words feel wrong.

"Anne Sullivan," he crows with a laugh. "I did it! I was beginning to think I'd never stump you."

"Good, Billy," I murmur, and begin to walk inside before remembering something else. "Billy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm expecting a visitor tonight."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. And I'd appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself."

He frowns. "Mr. Carlisle pays me a good little bit to make sure you're looked after and safe, Ms. Swan."

"I am safe. But if that's what it will take to convince you…" I slip him two bills from my wallet and watch as he smiles.

"This _is_ a safe neighborhood," he admits with a grin. "Sometimes I don't even pay attention to see who's visiting who – that's how safe it is."

"Thank you, Billy."

**+.+.+.+**

The tickle at the base of my spine blooms into a glow that envelopes my entire being as I realize this: I am a woman – a perfect predator, with my body as my bait.

The beauty of this revelation is lost on Father Brewer, who still will not look at me, his chest rising and falling to the beat of his speeding pulse as he sits, slumped in his chair, his mouth still agape as he gasps. Later, he will repent, but at the moment his pants are still undone and I can still taste his cock in my mouth, hear his moans and grunts echo in my ears. So.

"Are we done with these sessions now?" I ask, and I am all politeness.

Whatever trance he is in breaks and he looks at me. I could recoil from what I see in his eyes, but I don't. I've already won this game.

"What did you say?" he rasps.

"I'm sure you heard me."

I can see the warring in his head as he debates between his two options: keep a shark in his swimming pool or release it back to the sea.

"I _will_ tell, you know," I inform him calmly, and his glare is no longer indecisive.

"You're going to Hell, Bella," he spits angrily, but I can still see his limp cock and the bite of his words is lost.

"If that is truly what you believe," I answer. "Then I'm sure I'll see you there."

**+.+.+.+**

The walls of the apartment pulse, thrum with nerves, with excitement.

He is coming here, they gaily remind me. He is coming.

I want to shush them, burn them, calm them in the ashes. It is nothing, I tell them. He is nothing.

But still they dance to the murmured song of, finally! finally!

The two women sent by the cleaning service work quickly, quietly around me as I write, and write, and write until I barely blinking, barely breathing and my fingers fly across the page with quicksilver in their veins as the box in the closet whispers doubt into the room.

Keep me covered, it hisses. Keep me safe. You don't want to lose him.

He is nothing, nothing, nothing, my mind retorts, and I write it in endless lines, questioning:

Was there ever a man who followed a selkie into the sea?

**+.+.+.+**

It is the summer after my father comes back, after he holds me and tells me he'll stay.

There is tension before we arrive, strain etched like fault lines on both my parents' faces. My mother, ever cold, always still, leaves her hands clasped firmly in her lap. I watch as her fingers press against one another, slim and strong and shaking.

Beside her, my father's pensive gaze does not waver from his window.

We arrive to find that Carlisle is all politeness, affable as he shakes my father's hand and welcomes our family to his home yet again. Beside him is Esme, but her warm smile and bright eyes are absent; in their places are features that match my mother's.

The two women regard each other with the feral hatred of two alley cats but it's soon covered up with smiles and light kisses to the cheek as I watch them erase the past before my very eyes. Father and Carlisle chuckle over something and I hear one of them say something like, "bygones be bygones" as we walk into the palatial Masen home.

I watch as my mother slips back into her role a little colder and a little harder, her anguished eyes disappearing behind a dark veil, and the sun sets on her few precious days of power.

**+.+.+.+**

"So… I'm the first visitor you've had in here?" Edward asks, his eyes roving quickly over the blank, whispering walls, the luxurious lines of furniture my mother selected.

I am silent.

He notices, and his steps are slow until he is standing in front of me.

"May I kiss you?" he asks, a question of Victorian innocence.

And again, I grant him permission.

**+.+.+.+**

We walk in the garden while the adults socialize, and Ilse tells me stories of evil, foolish men and the folly of power and immorality. Abram gave his wife to the pharaoh in exchange for money and safety, she notes disapprovingly. "His _wife_, _liebchen_. And God was angry."

I nod.

"And you know that's not right, don't you? That you are more than just some bargaining chip for silly rich men?"

"Yes, Ilse," I reply, impatient. "Can I go in the maze now?"

"You'll get lost, child. Best to stay out of it."

**+.+.+.+**

"Everything okay?" Edward asks, taking a bite of his lamb wellington.

"Of course," I answer firmly, but my hand is shaking.

This is a mistake.

This is a mistake.

This is a mistake.

"You seem nervous," he observes, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

"I'm tired."

He sets his cutlery down and places his napkin on the table. "Well, then. Ready for bed?"

I stare at him for several long moments, desperate for him to leave, to get out and let me be alone.

You don't belong here! I want to scream.

But his green-glass eyes are mine now and they look at me with something warm, something wanting.

Stiffly, I stand.

And lead him to my bed.

**+.+.+.+**

My father and Esme do not speak easily anymore – gone are the days of the easy grins and shared jokes that made my mother so uncomfortable.

Now, there is only silence and the emptiness of Carlisle's toadying smile.

Men will do anything for power, Ilse tells me constantly. Bad, evil things.

I am asleep in the car one night when I hear my parents speaking in hushed, horrible tones:

"Do you love her?" my mother asks finally. An image of Esme, laughing and lovely, floats through my mind, and I strain my young ears for his reply.

But my father does not answer.

**+.+.+.+**

I know you, I told him, and meant it.

I know that, despite his taking, his recent dominance, he is unsure of his hold on me. His arms tighten around me in his sleep, the clench of a massive fist, whenever I attempt to move in my own bed.

He murmurs things into my hair, sleep-addled words that mean nothing, nothing, nothing.

I am not tired, and so I lie in his arms, my body still, my mind a cesspool of question marks.

I am not a liar,

but I may be willing to lie

if I can keep him now, just for a little while,

after waiting and waiting.

This will not end well, says an echo in my mind.

And perhaps it is right.

And perhaps he will hate me.

And perhaps the man in the park was right,

But I do not want to teach him a lesson

I do not want to walk away.

Not yet.

He wants me,

of course he does.

I shift, and he shifts with me, arms tensing around my torso.

"Bella," he sighs in his sleep, and gone is the unsure, the man who took me from behind while his fingers stretched my mouth, pinched my nipples painfully and rubbed my skin raw as he tried to prove a point. Now he is soft, now he is sweet.

You poor, stupid fool, I muse bitterly, and settle against him.

**+.+.+.+**

My apartment in Georgetown is unlocked when I arrive and I tense, tendons taut as I reach into my bag and continue inside.

"Who's here?" I call coldly.

No one answers.

I walk slowly, slowly down the hall and into my room and—

there he stands, moleskin in hand:

Jacob.

Wrath and madness roil, roll like a high tide in my chest and I am shaking, I am raging, I am ready to leap at him and tear out his heart and weigh it, watch it as it pulls down the scales, as feathers float to the floor and I am Ammut herself now, angry and awaiting the feel of his heart beneath my teeth.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" I ask, low and flat and furious, and he spins around, sees me, _sees_ me finally and gone are the oblivious eyes and lazy smile and he is scared and defensive and quickly, so quickly tries to hide behind the mask of self-righteousness I've seen him wear so often.

"Your spare key was—I was going to surprise—this book was open," Jacob lies, so like him, so like his namesake. "I happened to see it and— what the _fuck_ is this, Isabella?"

I do not answer, stalking toward him in ire and silence, my hand closing around what I've finally found at the bottom of my purse and I am cold, cold, cold.

"I think your father should see this," he says slowly. "You need help, Isabella."

"From _you_?" I sneer. "Stop fucking around. Put it down and leave."

"The fuck I will. You— you've—this is psychotic!"

"It's none of your business."

"How many others are there?" he demands. "How many men are you stalking?"

"Get. Out."

I watch as he eyes me, assesses how far I am between him and the exit. His fingers close tighter around the binding of one of the journals.

He is fast, and almost makes it through the door before the Taser charge hits him and he is down and shaking, tongue lolling, eyes rolling like a wild animal as I crouch over him, feral and furious and fingers around his windpipe, scratching as I scream, cornered and uncoiled, that he is mine and that all I want is for him to learn his fucking place.

But my hands do not stay on his throat and he is pushing, shoving, trying but I dig into his skin and hang on and there is blood under my fingernails by the time someone in my building calls the police and then we are caught, questioned, cuffed as Jacob, shocked and incoherent, looks at me with something like horror in his eyes.

**+.+.+.+**

He is gone when I wake up and there is a note that says I should bring a bottle of Merlot to his apartment that evening.

I frown as I read the scrawled lines and the meaning between them. It's so… pedestrian.

Freedom, something inside me screams. This isn't it.

But neither is choosing the opposite of what I want, I reason.

And so, with the wine in my hand, I am in front of his door nine hours later waiting for someone to answer my knock—

The door swings open.

And I am frozen, pinned and cornered by glass-green eyes in a smaller, more feminine face.

"You're Isabella," the tiny woman in front of me says flatly.

I am silent, motionless despite the urge to run, to run, to run and never look back and I remember my father's words as he spoke of vigilance, of single-mindedness, of no distractions.

"Sorry, that was rude," she sighs, offering me her hand. "I'm Edward's sister, Alice. It's nice to finally meet you."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	16. Under Her Dark Veil

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.

"Why are you so pale today?"

"Because I made him drink of stinging grief

Until he got drunk on it.

How can I forget? He staggered out,

His mouth twisted in agony.

I ran down not touching the banister

And caught up with him at the gate.

I cried: 'A joke!

That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'

He smiled calmly and grimly

And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "

[Anna Akhmatova, "Under Her Dark Veil"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, was destined for greatness from birth, and she knew it, reveled in it.

Ammut, the funeral demon, was the unapologetic devourer of men's hearts.

The selkie always found her way back to the sea.

And I,

I,

I will find my way away from him, soon.

Soon.

**+.+.+.+**

Alice Cullen is an inch or two shy of standing eye-to-eye with me, with bony wrists and the severe jaw of her brother. She is a striking woman, dark-haired and bright-eyed, with full lips pursed above a delicately pointed chin.

She stands straight, rigid shoulders and arms angled in a patrician bent with her hands folded in front of her. Her expression is only a few centimeters away from overtly hostile.

She does not know me, and she does not like me.

"Edward told us he was seeing someone," she begins coolly. "I'm sure you can imagine how surprised I was to hear it."

"I'm sure I can't. He seems rather adept at keeping female company."

"Yes," she agrees, looking at me oddly. "He _is_ popular with the ladies. At least, he is with the ones around him."

"Alice was just leaving," Edward interrupts, coming into the foyer with a glare that is not meant for me. "I told her I was expecting company."

"I think it's a case of excellent timing that I was able to meet Isabella at all. He's very mysterious sometimes – he loves having secrets," she stage-whispers to me.

Beside her, Edward stiffens.

And so do I.

"Anyway, I'm glad we've finally had the chance to meet. Our parents have been harassing Edward about bringing you over."

"Alice," he snaps. "That's enough."

She gives him a long look and a smirk, and then she is saying that it was nice to meet me, that we'll see each other again soon, and she is out the door.

**+.+.+.+**

"You've destroyed me," Jacob's letter says, and I'm sure it's meant as a reproach.

What have I truly done, except to humble a blundering, blithering colossus? What crime of the heart have I committed that he has not?

I read the rest of his words, the type screaming at me in his fury, his humiliation. My father sees, frowns and asks who the letter is from, but he already knows that a certain congressman wants closure.

Wordlessly, I hand him the missive and return to my room.

**+.+.+.+**

I sip my Merlot slowly, drinking it in with the sight of the city below.

"Do you want to go onto the terrace?" Edward asks from behind me, and I nod.

And then we are out in the cool of the autumn night, and there is nothing beneath us but air and suspended steel.

He shuts the terrace door and I am trapped, but I knew this would happen when I agreed to come outside and so I stand, still.

"Why are you so bored?" I ask suddenly, wanting to gather, gather all I can from him while there is still time.

His smile makes him look old, older than it should, and there is a foreign wistfulness in his eyes as he looks down upon me. "Did the elusive Bella just ask me a personal question?"

"Are you going to answer it?"

"I didn't know I _was_ bored," he replies quietly.

"But aren't you?"

"Of course I am. I just didn't—" he sighs. "I just didn't know before."

His face angles, shadows just enough for me to hear the words he does not say.

But I stay silent.

"I have family here, in the city. My parents, and," he gestures toward the door. "Alice. My sister."

Against my will, another hunger begins to growl inside of me, preceding the desire I feel for his body. I am back, back when I was consumed with the yearning to know, to _know_ everything.

"Are you close?" I ask quietly.

He shrugs. "Close enough, I suppose. It's complicated."

"I have time."

His smile is brief, and he sets his wineglass onto the nearby table and leans against the railing. His back is long, straight and strong, but the muscles have relaxed him into the tranquil frame of the man before me.

"My mother's dead."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, because it is the thing to say.

He waves me off. "I was young. Not too young to remember, but…" he sighs. "It was a long time ago."

I wait.

"Alice and I—we're close, I guess. I've always looked out for her. She's gotten it into her head recently that she's supposed to do the same for me."

"What about your father?"

I watch his profile, see his eyes harden as they stare out at the skyline.

"We don't talk," he says shortly.

"Not ever?"

"I see him occasionally at the office. He wants to help me consolidate the family legacy. Or what's left of it anyway— the business was in my mother's family, and Alice and I are the only ones left, really. I'm not complaining – I have a good life. But it's rare to be around someone real."

"Am I real, then?"

His eyes find mine, unreadable. "I think so. And I think... you may have ruined me for others who aren't," he confesses quietly.

I do not disguise my skepticism, my sneer as I think of Tanya, of Victoria, of countless others before them. "I doubt you'll ever be lonely," I scoff, attuned to his profile as he turns away, waiting for a reaction.

His jaw clenches, and the muscle in his cheek bunches, relaxes as he swallows.

"You don't know everything, Isabella," he sighs, and it fatigue and something else in a breath tumbling into the air beneath us.

We are still then, for several long moments, and all is quiet, all is calm.

"What about you?" he asks, and I start at the question.

"Excuse me?"

"You're bored," he states. "I find that people who invent games often create them out of boredom." He leans closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "So why are you bored?"

Something inside me hisses, Why does he want to know? and I straighten.

"I've told you about this," I reply, uneasy and cursing my discomfort. "We're a bit old for Twenty Questions."

"It was one question. Not everything's a game."

"I know that," I snap.

His expression is skeptical. "Sometimes I wonder."

Talk about something else, I think. Anything else.

"Well… if this was a game, you certainly found a way to one-up me. I didn't think you'd ambush me with your family."

"I didn't tell Alice to come over. She was picking up a photo album for my stepmother."

I roll my eyes, white-knuckled hands wrapped tightly around the balcony railing as I speak toward the city. "I'm sure."

I can see my breath in the cool night air, and exhale experimentally to see if any of my words are visible as well. He watches all the while, I can feel him, his eyes and the warmth inside.

"Who are you?" he breathes, but I do not answer.

His eyes do not move from me, and moments pass as he stares at the stone-cut of my cheek before his hands are around my wrists and I am being pulled gently, gently to face him.

"I want to say something," he says slowly.

"What—"

"No, just wait. It's— this game you're playing with me… is that all there is to this?"

I stare at him, searching for something clever, but all I can manage is, "What?"

"The anonymity. The control. Not that I'm complaining," he says quickly, smirking, but then the smile is gone again. "I like you."

"I don't play games."

He huffs a disbelieving laugh. "I don't know anything about you beyond what you've given me. You could be a serial killer, for all I know."

"I think you know exactly what you want to know."

"Right. So I should have you followed? Rummage through your purse? Go through your apartment?"

"You could do that, I suppose."

"I could. But I'm guessing you've already thought of all that."

"Most of it, yes."

"Are you going to tell me why?"

"Are you going to rummage through my purse?"

"I could," he says. "I could do a little detective work, I suppose."

"I don't want that."

"Then I won't."

"I know you won't."

He stares at me, and his look is sharp. "I want to know you," he says firmly. "Without the games."

There is nothing but the space between us and the sharp, seeking light in his eyes.

**+.+.+.+**

"It reminded me of you," Tyler whispers, cheeks tinged red as I hold his gift between cold, calm hands.

The figurine is unspeakably delicate, porcelain and pretty, the sinewy, sensual limbs of Artemis exposed as she leaps gracefully in the middle of the hunt. The statuette is as beautiful as it is fragile.

Its weakness annoys me.

"This could break so easily," I tell him, and he nods. "You know I'm stronger than that."

And then I pull his eager limbs away, the figurine forgotten between us as I show him how to avoid the girls' prefect on the trek to my room.

He is timid beneath me, so different from the tough athlete or the cocksure heartbreaker.

He is mine.

"How… how did you know how to do that?" he whispers against me, once, and his ass clenches beneath my hands as he remembers me, inside.

So I tell him about erotica, explicit videos not meant for a girl's eyes and, above all, instinct, but he's such a good, dumb, sweet boy and has never looked further than pornographic footage of a man on a woman as she screams Yes, Yes, Yes in a pantomime of pleasure.

And then he is wanting and I bite his kisses and watch as the boy, That Boy, the one everyone wants, finds himself a helpless hulk in my thin, pale arms. He comes, crying out in ecstasy and I smile as I find the reason behind the reaching in his eyes:

He wants, always, more.

**+.+.+.+**

I avoid Edward's gaze the rest of the night and he knows it, but it does not stop him from groaning my name as I mount him.

That night, I fuck him hard, my nails digging into his chest, scratching down the side of his neck and then his hands move as his hips move, long fingers around my wrists, lifting and sliding and holding, and my palms meet his palms as he says my name, says my name again and then my eyes meet his eyes and I feel, I feel, I feel

The cold of my balcony

The warmth of his fire

The steel of my memories

The soft rumble of his moans

The fullness of him inside

And I feel and fly and tumble like a dervish into something new, something bold and brash and breathtaking and I am running, I am running through and through with walls of green beside me, above me, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart above the whistle of a moonlight breeze through the branches.

And maybe this is different, maybe I can run and take him and go, go away from this city with its box in the closet and the box in which I live and the walls that call me crazy and I'll leave and they will finally know what it means to be alone, to echo nothing within yourself and all you have is the promise of a future something, if you can hold out for it.

Or maybe they're all right, something whispers. Maybe you're stuck, drag him down and move on to the next one.

But he is different and this will not end well and crazy crazy crazy take him take him take him and

take him!

So I do, and my hands leave his hands, find his hair and his neck and I fall, fall, fall onto him as we move and my lips seek the honey of his mouth as he opens to my teeth and my tongue and I lap at him, a starving animal, a feral, thirsty thing.

"Bella," he groans again, and of course it's my name, of course he is undone.

I have wanted this, planned this and now I am here, but

all I can think of

is the feel of his pulse beneath my fingers

the rhythm of him, hard and hot and buried to his hilt in my cunt

and the echo of my words as I tell him, as if from a lifetime ago,

that I see him.

**+.+.+.+**

Renee Swan is a wonderful neighbor, always welcoming new families to the area – especially when those families have earned millions in investment banking.

Now we stand on the massive porch of the home closest to ours on the lane, and my mother is oozing what some would call "charm."

"Isabella, this is Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg," my mother says brightly, ushering me to stand in front of the well-dressed man and woman in the foyer before us. "Don, Mitzi – this is our daughter, Isabella. She'll be eleven in September – the same age as your Seth, I believe."

"It will be nice for Seth to have someone to play with," Mrs. Goldberg says kindly. "He's been lonely since we moved. Does Isabella have any siblings?"

No, my mother replies as steps sound on the stairs and my eyes land on the lanky limbs of a boy only slightly larger than I:

Seth.

**+.+.+.+**

I fall asleep with Edward still inside me – a mistake, I think.

Because my mind senses his presence, bucks against it like an unbroken stallion.

Run, run, run, run, run, it whispers steadily, and I try but I'm tied to his lifeless limbs.

In my dreams, he is pallid and ghoulish in the garb of an undertaker.

"I'm going to pick you apart," he whispers. "And then I'll eat you alive."

And willing, I lie still and let him.

**+.+.+.+**

After my father becomes aware of them, Jacob's accusatory letters immediately cease.

Now, there is the problem of what to do with me.

Sent away, my father says quietly into the telephone, deploying the powers of some odd informal brotherhood, a deep camaraderie that transcends past betrayal and political backstabbing, a bond of power that causes like to honor like.

A broken heart, my father says to whoever will help him.

A new city, with new faces and new opportunities to start over.

The best thing for her.

Perhaps law school, once she gets settled.

An apartment in the city… Carlisle will come through.

No trouble, no trouble at all.

Her mother is worried.

Call Dr. Cope, she's flexible, she's cooperative.

Help her, help her adjust.

Time away, sent away.

The best thing for her.

And I, I do not mind being packed away to a new city,

because I have experienced worse,

and better the tall, foreign buildings of the Manhattan skyline

than the small, bitter weight of my parents' poison on my tongue.

**+.+.+.+**

Morning light spills across his bed as I move quietly through his room.

My mind is steady, firm and calm, but now there are nerves.

Nerves.

I yank too hard on one of my stockings, cursing as it runs up to the thigh.

My hands are trembling just barely as I zip up my dress.

My ankles wobble slightly in my heels.

Edward is still asleep, a snoring tumble of long, lean limbs on his bed. I watch him for a moment, wondering whether I will ever be able to want less than to both whip him and win him.

**+.+.+.+**

"Do you want to play a game?" Seth asks, and his hair is a dark tangle against a blue sky as he stands above me.

"What kind of game?" I ask warily, because he is a boy who makes girls like me play second fiddle to him in every pursuit of fun.

"Well," he shrugs. "We could wrestle."

The last I see of Seth Goldberg is his soaked, scrubbed red-raw face as his au pair helps him into the house.

There is blood.

What have you done? my mother screeches, her voice echoing through the halls of our home as Ilse bundles me away to my rooms upstairs.

Hush, _Liebchen_, she murmurs over and over, and it is only then I realize that my body is shaking, that I am heaving dry, overwhelming sobs of exhaustion and exhilaration as she whisks me upstairs.

Just a girl, he said. Just a stupid girl.

But I won.

I won and I'll always want to win.

"I held him... I held him... I held him..." I hiccough, and she shushes me again.

**+.+.+.+**

"You're late," Dr. Cope sighs, her eyes drinking in every detail as I sit down and breathe.

She sees my rumpled dress, my hastily assembled hair, the run of my stocking. She hears the breathless whisper of my chest as it works to steady my racing heartbeat.

"Rough night?" she asks with a lift of an eyebrow.

"Nothing you or my father needs to know about," I reply coldly.

"You know that's not how this works, Isabella."

She is right, and something in the core of me shudders.

**+.+.+.+**

I am set in my place at the table, washed and rested, and the screams of Seth Goldberg are far away now.

Except my father's face is furrowed, frowning, and my mother looks livid.

The Goldbergs are very upset, she says.

Seth may have scars on his face, she says.

She can't imagine why I pushed his face into the rough tiles of the pool deck, she says.

I do not say anything.

"Tomorrow, we will go over to the Goldbergs' and you will apologize," she declares coldly. "Mr. Goldberg is important to your father."

"Renee—" he mutters.

"But first," she continues. "I think you owe me an apology."

Beside me, Ilse stiffens.

"You are a very blessed little girl, Isabella. You have everything. The least you can do is behave appropriately with the other children. I expect more of you. I expect you to act like a lady." She sighs. "Apologize."

"No."

"Isabella, apologize!"

"I won't."

"Now."

"I'm not sorry. I won't say I'm sorry if I'm not. That's lying."

"Charles!"

"I'm not a liar."

"What is it, Renee?" he asks wearily, his head in his hands.

"Take your daughter somewhere, please. I've had enough of her today."

"Isabella—"

"Cold little thing," Renee huffs. "I don't know what's wrong with her."

Wordlessly, Ilse hurries me out of the dining room.

**+.+.+.+**

I replay every bit of Dr. Cope's session, each monotone, well-meaning syllable, as I walk back home.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Swan," Billy calls cheerfully. "What's my quote today?"

I pause, thinking, remembering an oft-read line from one of my father's favorite authors.

"'_Above all, we must abolish hope in the heart of man. A calm despair, without angry convulsions, without reproaches to Heaven, is the essence of wisdom._'"

He huffs, and his expression is one of annoyance. "You don't make this game easy, do you?"

I shrug. "It's Alfred Victor Vigny," I tell him. "Another French writer."

"French," he scoffs. "I'd like to learn some French. I'd like to know how to say, 'That's bullshit.'"

"_Ce sont des conneries_," I reply.

"Well then, that. That's bullshit."

"I didn't write it."

"You're the one walking around quoting it. You're the one spouting that bullshit like it means something. People aren't goddamn robots. Let 'em hope. Know what I mean?"

He meets my eyes for a long moment, and despite my scrutiny, I look away first.

Hope.

Hope is a thing with feathers, I remember.

Dickinson wrote about hope, about the merry, singing bird in her breast. Warm little thing.

But I feel hollow, and any song inside might only echo, echo and die.

"I don't know what you've got going on," Billy says kindly, sharp eyes not missing a thing. "But it's always good to hope."

"For what?" I ask bitterly.

He opens his mouth, closes it again but he gives me no words and I think I have my answer.

**+.+.+.+**

Seth is not the only one taken to the doctor in the aftermath of what my mother refers to as "the incident with Isabella."

I am marched into a clean white room, sterile and hostile, bright lights blazing down upon me as I am asked and asked and asked:

Why?

Time drags and I am tired, and then Dr. Scott is scribbling on a small pad and my mother is nodding, nodding with something like relief, something like knowing in her eyes.

Words in a context I do not understand are exchanged, things like dissocial and episodes and Risperdal and then we are standing, then we are leaving.

"I knew something wasn't quite right," my mother tells Dr. Scott in a low voice, taking the paper from him.

I look to the doctor then, my neck craned like a question mark, but he does not meet my gaze.

**+.+.+.+**

I have not been to Morningstar for several weeks, but my usual table is still open and I sit, waiting, always waiting.

There is the bustle of coming and going, but still he comes in several minutes later, grey suit and blue tie and right on schedule as he walks to the counter, orders his drink.

Weeks and weeks earlier, he would have passed me without a second glance, leaving me with only the familiar angles of his profile and the burning need to know, to know, to know.

But now, he spots me immediately.

A grin and a wink and I am almost angry at the anticipation that blooms in my chest, a stubborn desert blossom that will not die in the dry, arid air.

"You come here often?" he teases as he approaches me, all wide grin and bright eyes.

"About as often as you do," I reply coolly.

"Hm. I do come here frequently."

"I know."

"Maybe it's because I like the view."

"Oh?"

He does not even attempt to hide the trajectory of his eyes as he leers at the cut of my sweater. "Maybe I like the view a _lot_."

We are surrounded by people, by unknowing and unknowns, by those who see us only as obstacles on the way to their days. We are blurs, but we are bright and wouldn't it be lovely to take him here, to sit him down and show the world that I've won, that I'll always want to win and that he's mine, he's mine, he's mine.

"It gets better, you know," I tell him.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Is that right?"

"I've heard the view is best toward the back of the cafe."

"Ah. Back by the restrooms?"

I tell him he's getting warmer, and glow at the heat in his gaze.

**+.+.+.+**

Breathless, I walk, walk, walk through the lanes of the hedge maze and it is a forbidden garden, a whole other world of verdant limbs and looming shadows that lure me in and lose me.

They are here, I can feel it.

A feeling, a glow, a tremor runs up through my young body and every reflex is ready, every nerve ending is exposed and sensitive to what may happen.

I want to see, I want to see.

I walk for what feels like hours, and the sky is the only constant.

And then there is a noise.

And then there are more noises.

I creep ever closer.

**+.+.+.+**

The wall of the stall is cold, cold as my fingers curl around the top on either side of him, anticipation running in electric streams throughout my body.

"I'm going to be late," Edward breathes, and my hand in his hair pushes him into the wall and he flinches and frowns but he is not leaving, he is still here.

Captive, captivated.

His breathing is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his zipper as I slide it down, the sound of my stumbling as I remove my underwear.

He tries to turn me around but I resist, winding my arms about his neck, wrapping a leg around him, inviting, allowing him to slide his hands beneath my ass, move underneath my skirt as I squeeze my thighs around his hips and he enters me silently. My breath hitches as he begins to move, and it's hard like last time but now he's in control and he knows how to thrust up just right, over and over and over and I balk even as my body rejoices at his scent and his sweat.

"Is it good?" he rasps.

"Of course," I breathe, pulling painfully at his hair and his loud gasp when I tighten around him lets me know that he agrees.

We both come quickly, and breathe breathe breathe as I straighten my clothes in the mirror, pretending not to notice that he's behind me, staring.

I wait for him to look away.

He doesn't.

"See something you like?" I ask sharply.

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "I see you," he replies.

**+.+.+.+**

My mother announces the doctor's diagnosis at dinner and the dining room table is impossibly long, impossibly glossy as I stare into its surface. Beside me, her hands in her lap and practically vibrating with dissent, Ilse has decided which hill she is to die upon.

"There's nothing wrong with Isabella," she argues, stolid face behind wisps of grey-blond hair falling from her bun and she is something bright, bold next to my calm, well-groomed parents, my mother's hair neatly tucked into her usual chignon.

"Thank you, Ilse, but Dr. Scott was very clear that this medicine will help her."

There is the clink, clink of the silver but I am not eating, I am watching the woman next to me.

"Excuse me," Ilse says after a moment. "But I think you should get another opinion."

"Ilse," my mother interrupts coldly. "You're forgetting your place."

Beside her, my father massages the bridge of his nose; the conversation, brief as it has been, seems to have already exhausted him.

But Ilse is only just beginning.

"I am a part of Isabella's life, Ma'am."

"Yes. A hired part."

"I am with her every day. Isabella is a sweet child, she is sensitive and she only wants—"

"Yes, and I'm her mother. Dr. Scott is her physician. If he says she exhibits symptoms of—"

"Ilse," my father interrupts wearily. "We're only asking that you give Isabella the medicine as she needs it."

"She doesn't _need _it," she insists. "She's a child, and it is poison."

My mother rolls her eyes. "If the doctor says—"

"_Mein gott,_ do not tell me about your doctor," Ilse spits, her accent weighing heavy on her words. "I am not some stranger in this house — I know who is paid to say what whenever they are needed. I know about your doctors and your attorneys and your consultants—"

"That is enough," my mother snaps.

"She will take that pill and she'll fade away," Ilse continues angrily. "She will be just as— as bland and as boring as the wall."

"This medicine will help her behave appropriately," my mother responds, her voice cold in its anger. She is in high dudgeon now, cheeks flashing pink, eyes snapping with fury.

Beside her, my father looks older than ever.

"Ilse—" he sighs again.

"Isabella is not a doll, or a dog!" Ilse exclaims. "Which is more than I can say for this..." she narrows her eyes on my mother. "This _miststück_!"

"Ilse!" my mother gasps.

"_Fotze_," the older woman retorts.

"That's enough."

My father does not yell, but there is an undercurrent in his tone that makes both my mother's and Ilse's mouths snap shut, makes their faces turn to look at him.

"Ilse," he says quietly. "Isabella will be happier this way."

"She's happy now."

"She'll be able to be like other girls her age."

"Of course, I forgot that _is_ the goal," Ilse retorts bitterly. "To make her a perfect accessory for you both."

"Fuck you," my mother yells, sudden and sharp.

"Ilse," my father says flatly, his hand a restraint on my mother's slim forearm. "Will you please help us with Isabella?"

"I will not give her that medicine," she insists, and her voice is shaking. "Please do not make her take it. She is a beautiful child who needs attention, and care, and love—not medicine for crazy people. You cannot give her pills and think she will just be perfect, or happy."

"Ilse," he says.

The silence suffocates us, its presence heavy and pressing like a drape, like a funeral shroud. My eyes do not leave the distraught profile of my nanny, of my best and favorite and only friend and there is a thrum, thrum of desperation in each breath as I beg her with my eyes, as I beg for what I want with all of me.

Please don't go, don't go, don't go.

But then there is a shuddering breath, and I know.

"I will not give it to her," Ilse finally says, shaky and somber. "I cannot."

Later that day, she tells me goodbye and holds me in warm, warm arms that have cradled me since infancy, murmuring words in her native language that I've never understood, that I've always known. Her thick fingers wipe away the hot tears as they run, rivers soaking my cheeks, congesting my nose, my throat. My face burns with exhaustion and grief.

"You are so, so loved, _Liebchen_," she says into my hair. "You are strong, the strongest. You make them see you are perfect already."

"Ilse," I say, and it is a croak, a cry of a girl who cannot do, who cannot be, who lives according to the whims of her betters.

She gives me one last look, her ice-chip eyes are wet with her own tears, and I feel them as she kisses my forehead, squeezes my small, fragile frame to her one more time.

"Be a good, good girl," she whispers.

And then she is gone, and there is no more warmth.

**+.+.+.+**

He walks me out of the coffee shop, and I marvel at how I have tamed him, this man who enjoys a plurality of women, now holding my hand on a Thursday morning.

The sidewalk is busier than the café, and he pulls me closer, kisses me, and I let him.

"Meet me for dinner," he says against my mouth. "Eight o'clock. Locanda Verde."

I open my eyes to find him staring down into my face and it is odd, so odd and my mouth curls into a small smile.

"Prim, pretty thing," he whispers, grinning back at me. "I'll win you over sooner or later."

"We'll see," I say.

"Dinner?"

"We'll see," I repeat.

Then there is a discreet cough and Edward pulls away, away and back toward his car—

Where his driver stands, eyes narrowed as he watches.

"Where's the fire, Riley?" Edward jokes, squeezing my hand before moving away, climbing into the Towncar. "Eight o'clock," he calls, right before the door is shut in his face.

Riley and I lock eyes for one long moment before he is turning, turned and in the car and driving away, and I watch as the car disappears around the corner and into the sea of traffic.

Slip away, slip away, I think.

One of us will.

I will let him go, soon.

Soon.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	17. Cet Air Me Rendra Folle

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Azure isle of childhood paling,

On the deck of a ship we stand alone.

It appears, oh mother, to your daughters

You've left an inheritance of woe.

[Marina Tsvetaeva, "To Mother"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Without its master, my father's house surrounds us with silence, suspended in anticipation of his return. Every wall and tile echoes his absence.

Where did he go? I ask, and Ilse frowns, sighs, tells me she's sure he misses me, wherever he is.

The days pass, turn into weeks and my mother, when she is not in her bed, moves throughout the house like a spectre, angry and pale and wandering.

"Let her be lost for a little while, _Liebchen_," Ilse tells me. "She will come back."

But I like the house like this, its long hallways devoid of the empty chatter of my parents' constant parade of guests and contemporaries. I am free to roam unchecked now, creeping through the rooms with the stealth and curiosity of an intrepid jungle explorer.

"It's like we live in a pyramid," I whisper to Ilse once, but she only gives me a sad smile and tells me I am more right than I know, and that perhaps I could read more about Ancient Egypt to pass the time.

And so I am engrossed in an illustrated tome on the pharaohs when I hear the music from downstairs, notes coloring the stale air for the first time since my father left.

Ilse comes out of the sitting room, annoyed and mildly distressed when she sees me approach.

"Leave your mother alone for a little while," she cautions, attempting to lead me back toward the staircase, but it is too late.

The music stops, and seconds later, my mother emerges from the next room, pausing in the doorway to brace her hands on the frame. "Isabella?" she slurs.

"Upstairs, Bella," Ilse begins firmly.

"No," my mother snaps. "She can stay. Come in and sit, Isabella." She moves aside to let me enter, unsteadily pushing me toward the settee. "That's all, Ilse," she calls. "Isabella can stay with me for now."

"Sit," she commands, and I do, taking in every detail of her: her chestnut hair pinned into a stylish chignon, her sleek frame encased in a red cocktail dress. Heavy clumps of her mascara frame glazed, vacant eyes, and the uneven lines of color on her lips tremble slightly as she stares back at me.

"How're you holding up?" she mutters with a smirk, watching my reaction before chuckling darkly at my frown. "Never mind. You're fine, of course. Ilse. You have Ilse. Do you like music, darling?"

I nod cautiously, watching as she walks unsteadily to the sound system used to pump music throughout the downstairs during parties.

"I adore Piaf," she crows, and the horns of 'Padam, Padam' fill the room. "Do you know this one?"

"Yes."

"Ilse," she realizes aloud, and again, I nod.

"We watch French movies, too. She says it will help me learn."

"Ilse's very smart when it comes to the French," she rejoins absently. "Her husband was from Normandy. Do you know what the song is saying, Isabella?"

I still, listening, and my mother grins and sways in the middle of the room, singing along.

"_Un jour cet air me rendra folle_

_Cent fois j'ai voulu dire pourquoi_

_Mais il m'a coupé la parole_

_Il parle toujours avant moi_

_Et sa voix couvre ma voix..."_

"She says the song's making her crazy," I say. "She says it overwhelms her."

"'Overwhelms'... such an intelligent child," my mother muses, but her tone is harsh. "Very good, Isabella. Not that it matters - the song loses its charm once it's translated." She sits then, collapsing onto the seat beside me in the most ungraceful movement I've ever seen her make. "He's not coming back, you know."

"Father?"

"Yes," she answers, annoyed, and I notice the half-empty tumbler of clear liquid on the end table. "Why would he? Men only want one thing, Isabella, and he's a man. He can do whatever wants, with whomever he can persuade to stay on her back long enough for him to finish. Look at you," she spits, leaning closer, her hand coming up to my hair. She watches, fascinated as the brown strands fill her fingers. "You look just like him. My little souvenir from my marriage to Charles Swan. My little-"she snorts. "-love token."

"Mother-"

"I grew up for him," she sighs, her breath stinging across my face. "I was only nineteen, and young- I loved being young. There were so many things- and _he_ came, wanted to marry me. And do you know what my father said?"

I shake my head.

"He said we were a 'smart match.' A Higginbotham marrying young, no education, but there was money. And I did it. And now look- now look where I am." She releases me, falling back against the couch. "Ruined," she mutters, closing her eyes.

Moments later, she is asleep.

I stay beside her, thinking and thinking and thinking, until Ilse comes to lead me away.

**+.+.+.+**

The walls are quiet, but my mother's voice inside my head screams louder than ever.

"What are you feeling right now, Isabella?" Dr. Cope asks.

"Nothing," I answer honestly.

"Nothing at all?"

"That's what I said."

"Okay." Dr. Cope pauses, scribbles on her notepad. "Right. Now, I'd like you to picture your mother."

"Why?"

A corner of her mouth tugs upward. "You're not afraid of an exercise, are you?"

I shake my head.

My mother.

Thoughts of her writhe, twist and turn like a serpents' nest, hissing and whispering of a thousand different memories and their accompanying misery. They show me the shape of my Renee Swan, a whitewashed, faded figure, freezing and fearful.

They show me the map of a maze traversed long ago, its angles and lanes pressed into my mind's eye like a thumbprint.

They show me my father, the architect of this world, my world, stern and stuck in the very mold he created. They remind me of his voice, echoing words like "family" and "sacrifice," even as he and my mother lay me upon the altar of their influence.

They remind me of my place in his world, of what is asked of me: to reflect well on him.

But my mother whispers to me, and I know that I am angles where they want curves, sharp where sweet is best, and cold when all my parents ask of me is a little warmth, a little want. A perfect image is necessary, you see, when it's what you sell. Divorce, deviation from the acceptable - anathema.

The Kingmaker does not peddle tarnished crowns.

Power and control, he tells his clients, and they nod and beg for an endorsement, a stamp of approval. It is a delicate ballet, one that my father is one mistake away from losing. "It's not easy to live on top," he told Jacob once. "It demands perfection of you, of your life. Even of your family."

Perfection, by any means necessary.

I hear the strains of 'Padam, Padam,' remember the hollows behind my mother's eyes as she claimed her ruin.

Men only want one thing, she told me. And yet, how she needed him.

"Isabella?"

I start at the sound of the doctor's voice, focusing to find myself under her scrutiny.

"Can you tell me what you feel now?" she asks.

I tell her I feel nothing, but something in my eyes begs to differ and this time, the pity on her face is undisguised.

**+.+.+.+**

"Beautiful day, Ms. Swan," Billy declares, grinning as I step out of my cab.

"It is," I concur. "'There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.'"

"I've never heard that one."

"You really need to start doing your research, Billy. There are books you can buy that are full of different quotes-"

He holds up a hand with a grin. "Wait, now. If I cared about beating you at your own game, I might, but I think I'm fine with letting you win."

"You don't want to win?"

"Can I win that game?" he laughs. "And to answer your question, it doesn't matter if I get you good with a quote. Maybe I just like to talking to you."

"Oh." I blink slowly, confused. "But why?"

"Because I stand here for about seven hours a day, Ms. Swan. It's nice to have a beautiful young lady to say hello to."

I look at him, then, at the weathered, clean-shaven, kind features above the starch of his doorman's uniform. The creases of thousands of smiles furrow friendly shadows into his skin, and I can see hints of his receding salt-and-pepper hairline that disappears beneath his cap. He needs to trim his eyebrows.

He thinks I am pretty, and has no other motive for it than to hear me say hello.

"The quote is by Alfred Wainwright," I tell him. "He wrote tourism books."

"Well then, there you go," he says with a smile and a wink. "You learn something new everyday."

I give him one last look, nodding once at his grin before walking inside.

**+.+.+.+**

The neglect I endured during my father's absence does not abate once he returns.

I am occasionally brought out, introduced to mother's friends and their husbands, prettied and made much of before I am sent back upstairs to the warm, heavy accents of Ilse.

Since my father's return, they are tension and tenterhooks, claws unsheathing quickly as they circle one another with caution and contempt. My mother grows thinner, as my father's eyes grow more and more dim each day.

"We're not discussing this now," my father tells her often regarding Esme and a myriad of other things he does want to hear, and his voice flat and hard and final.

And still, I watch her: cold and bored and bleeding and frozen and feeble. Powerless, incapable, weak. For all her bluster, for all her disgust with me, her vodka and pills and her Piaf, she bows to his whims, scrapes and shames herself to stay in his good graces, desperate not to waste her second chance. Ruled by my father, a tyrant in his own absent-hearted, iron-willed and larger-than-life way.

I am both repelled and fascinated by the calm power he exudes in the face of my mother's constant grappling. He is untouchable, stony and statue-still as she storms, no longer the laughing man who showed me how to sail, who assured me he owned the ocean.

With growing disgust, I see my mother watch him, her eyes twin points of gunmetal grey, her patrician features always, always trained on the blank slate of his face. The rings on her left hand shackle her to his words, to our world.

"_Die Liebe hat sie vergiftet_," Ilse tells me. "Love has poisoned her, child. She deserves pity, not anger."

But I give her both.

**+.+.+.+**

Charcoal pinstripe suit, blue necktie.

Edward's hand on my waist burns like a brand, and he leans down to greet me, brushes his lips against my cheek and thanks me for meeting him.

"I thought dinner out would be a nice change," he explains, his eyes carefully sweeping down my frame and up again. "This is nice."

It's a Herve Leger, I inform him, and he nods like he knows what that means but his hungry eyes do not leave the dip of my décolletage.

"If this is a game, I feel like I'm winning," he says quietly, and I do not correct him.

**+.+.+.+**

"These," my mother announces, dropping the box at my feet, "are sick."

"Those are private."

"I think we both know what happens whenever you're given any measure of privacy," she retorts. "Have you been taking your medicine?"

"Yes," I snap.

"But you're still chasing boys. You're still writing this- this _filth_." She picks one of the journals out and opens it, and my skin grows hot. "Tell me," she spits, shoving the book in my face. "What is_this_?"

I focus on the page, on the handwriting and sketches and doodles I've made in my most private moments, in my most sacred fantasies. "It's a man," I answer quietly.

"I know it's a man. What is he doing?"

"He's masturbating."

"What about this one?" she continues, flipping to the sketch spread across two pages, to the only sketch that makes me blush. "Who are these people?"

"No one."

"No one? Really?" she demands. "Is that you, Isabella? Is that Tyler Crowley?" she asks angrily. "When did this happen?"

"It didn't."

"Do you expect me to believe that, after all the trouble you've gotten the two of you into?"

"I'm seventeen. I'm not the only girl at my school who has sex on campus, Mother."

"I don't _care_ what everyone else does! _You're_ the only one there whose actions are a reflection on this family. Your father almost lost some very valuable support over your little fling with the Crowley boy." She drops the book back into its box. "You're getting rid of these."

"No I'm not," I rejoin, feeling the flush of anger across my skin. "They're my journals."

"They're the manifestos of a horny, unbalanced adolescent who's seen one too many fetish films," she snaps back. "Get them out of my house."

That night, under my mother's watchful eye, a box of journals is placed at the foot of the back stairs to be removed. Let the staff read them, I think spitefully. Let them read and see and laugh at my parents, at the pills, at my mother's efforts to subdue the beast in my brain.

Anger and lack of surprise settle in my chest later on, as I watch my blue-blooded mother carry the box away herself.

**+.+.+.+**

The low lighting of Locanda casts us in muted tones of bronze and brown, and the brightest thing I see is the candlelight reflected in two sharp points in Edward's eyes. Here, away from the bedroom, away from the clubs frequented by his friends, he is a simpler version of himself: self-assurance bordering just on arrogance, a meaningless polite smile for our server, and an expression that alternates between a smirk and a heated gaze for me.

His collar is white, shockingly so, against the golden skin of his neck. My eyes follow the line of it down to the perfect double windsor knot of his necktie; I lick my lips, and he notices. He grins, and I feel myself begin to respond with my own smile, with the slight flush conquering my skin.

He orders a bottle of Quintarelli Valpolicella, winks at me as the sommelier pours us each a glass and quietly leaves us.

"No water for you this time," he quips, raising his glass to me.

The meaning of his words touches me like a live wire and I start and stare, frozen, as he watches me expectantly.

"I'm not an idiot, Isabella."

"No," I agree, slowly raising my own glass. "I don't suppose you are."

"What should we drink to?"

I hesitate only a moment before answering. "To living free."

He nods, echoes me absently, and we drink.

**+.+.+.+**

Tyler's father notices the scratches on his face, neck and shoulders and demands answers.

And Tyler, the good Christian boy, honors his father and his mother and reaps the blessings of victimization.

I am told, again, that I am crazy.

"You're not taking your medicine", my mother says accusingly, and I am called a liar when I argue, when I silently hand her the rust-colored plastic bottle and tell her to count the pills.

Mr. Crowley begins to speak of the matter to his friends, to those good, church-going politicos who listen eagerly as he claims that I am dangerous, that I am disturbed, that I am a pervert. They listen and talk and then talk some more, and our family portrait grows less illustrious with every wayward remark, with every ear that hears, with every mind that knows.

The statue of my father is awakened then, and flies into a fury.

Damage control, he sighs. Do not interact with the Crowley boy, or any boy. Stick to your studies. He is not unkind, but there is a sag in his shoulders, a furrow on his face that reveals his deepest wish: that I would shape up, slow down, fit in and make his life easier.

Mother glares at me coldly all the while, resenting the trouble I've caused her in her social circle. I don't care to discuss my teenage daughter's sexual proclivities at breakfast club, she huffs.

"You know how important reputation is to your father's work," my mother says, her flat tone at odds with the venom in her eyes. "This family has been through enough gossip."

"Not all of it has been about me," I reply calmly. "When Father left-"

"He came back," she snaps.

"Not fast enough."

And then she smiles, and there is something in it that echoes the cries of the homeless man in Columbus Park, years before. Something desperate and dire and burning.

"Ignoring the rules doesn't make them go away, Isabella," she says flatly. "You're a fool if you think you're free."

**+.+.+.+**

"I don't suppose you'll tell me _why_ you deemed it necessary to make me think you were drinking on our first date," he begins nonchalantly, but he looks at me intently and his eyes do not leave mine.

"I'm sure you know how I feel about your questions," I retort lightly.

At that, his eyes meet mine, and his look is still, steady and unwavering from my face.

When he speaks, his voice is calm. Even.

"Alright, then," he says slowly. "Would you like to dance?"

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the hardwood floor, half-full of other couples swaying to the slow, soft strains of the music from the stage.

_No, no, no non crederle_, the woman at the microphone sings, and it is a sad sound.

And then I am in his arms, we are chest to chest, my temple pressed against the strong stroke of his jaw and he is holding and I am holding on and there is something in my chest that tries to leap out, latch on and stay, stay, stay with him but I cannot brook sentimentality where control is concerned and so I force myself to relax against him.

"I'm going tell you something," he murmurs into my ear, and he cannot see my eyes widen. There is something like fear that sticks into my ribs at his words, a hot poker pricking at the tender tissues of my vital organs and my muscles flinch and flex, anticipating the necessity of flight.

"My middle name is Anthony," he says, the smooth cadence of his words almost lost beneath the music. "I'm named after my grandfather. My birthday is June 20. I'm thirty-two years old and I'm the youngest VP to oversee Mergers & Acquisitions in the history of my family's investment firm."

I listen, staring over his shoulder, swaying dumbly to the music as he continues.

"I went to Penn for undergrad and got my MBA from Columbia. My mother's name is- _was_ Elizabeth, she was one of the first female Fortune 500 CEOs in the country, she died when I was eighteen, and I'm still angry at her for a myriad of reasons I won't go into. My younger sister, whom you've met, is my mother reincarnate, minus the work ethic, and tries to plan every fucking second of my life. My father is Carlisle Masen - yes, _that_ Carlisle Masen - who, as I'm sure you know, is renowned as the most obnoxious real estate developer in the whole of the Western Hemisphere-"

"I don't want to hear this."

"Let me finish. I've never been arrested, and I've never been in love, but I went skydiving for my twenty-first birthday and it was one of the only times I've actually felt alive. My favorite book is "The Forgotten Soldier" by Guy Sajer, and I don't give a fuck if the book's nonfiction or not because, I swear to god, it was the first story I really understood.

"I want a dog, and sometimes I think about adopting a mutt, or picking up one of those free puppies people are always trying to get rid of, but I always get close to getting one and then stop, because I'm afraid anything that depends on me for its survival doesn't stand a chance because I work too much. Well, I usually work too much. I had a meeting yesterday with my father yesterday so he could ask me why I've been leaving at five o'clock each day for the past several weeks. I was able to tell him, for the first time in my life, that I was going home to spend time with a beautiful woman-"

"Edward-"

"-who drives me out of my fucking mind half the time, but I'm not sure that even matters to me because, for the first time, I'm living the way I want to live. I _like_ getting distracted in meetings all day because I think about you. I like thinking about the look on your face when you pin my hands down and fuck me- like you're a second away from eating me alive and your taste... sometimes I think about putting my mouth over every inch of you just so I can taste you, you taste like girl and salt and... like a fucking mango."

I stiffen, and his arms tighten around me; I can feel the steady rise-and-fall of his chest as he holds me to him.

"Don't do that," he says quietly. "Listen to me. It's not just the sex- even though, god- sometimes I think I could live in you- but... I think you're the only real thing I have, and I meant what I said the other night. I don't know what you want, or how I'm supposed to keep you. I have no idea exactly what the fuck I'm doing right now, but Isabella - Bella - I want to know more of you. I could try to be subtle, but I think we're both beyond that, so here I am, telling you what I want."

And I want to leave, scream my farewell, scream that he's ruined it all, beg him to take it all back because now- now he is more, and he's been more but now it is real, and I am no longer Artemis hunting the foolish youth, I am Persephone and he is Hades, a cluster of pomegranate seeds held within his lean, strong hands and I am afraid, I am afraid.

He leans back, looks at me, expectancy and skepticism warring in his gaze as he says, "It's your turn."

"Edward, please-"

"I deserve to know you," he says heatedly.

"This isn't about what you _deserve_."

"Give me three things. Three things about you that I don't know."

"No."

"Bella."

His voice is a warning and I swallow slowly, every inch of me vibrating with the awareness of the his arms, of his body wrapped around me like a chrysalis on the dance floor. "Only three?" I ask quietly, and I feel his nod.

"For now."

My eyes close, and I can see the wall of green looming in front of me, forcing me left or right, and I do not know which turn is my escape, and which will lead me to the man I saw silhouetted in the moonlight, and so I do not wait, I do not think, I only plow forward through the underbrush, crying out at the pain of the brambles.

I sigh at the memory, and his arms loosen to allow me enough room to face him. I look into his face, and he smiles like he cannot see the shadows stretching within my gaze.

"I love the ocean," I begin slowly.

One.

"I'm afraid of fire."

Two.

"I like dancing with you."

The pleased light in his eyes causes a small jolt inside of me, the echo of a pebble in a well, and his answering smile is another secret I plan to keep.

**+.+.+.+**

Seth's cries echo in my ears long after he is gone, the harsh cry overlaid by the soft, soothing tones of Ilse as she cleans the leftover blood from between my fingers, from underneath my nails.

"He is a nice boy," she sighs, and I watch her thick fingers scrub, scrub, scrub. "You should not have hurt him like that, _Liebchen_."

"He was mean to me. He tried to pull me into the water."

"Many people will be mean to you. You cannot hurt them all."

"Father can."

She frowns. "You are not your father, Isabella." She catches my eye, her expression stern. "You must learn that it is possible to be better than your money makes you."

"Will I ever be good, then?" I huff, annoyed at Ilse, at her wisdom in the ways of a world to which I was born, a world in which I walked the echoing, conspicuous steps of an alien presence.

"You are already good," Ilse answers imperturbably, patting my hands dry. "Now you must make others see it."

**+.+.+.+**

If Edward notices me stiffen as I meet his driver's eyes, he does not show it.

"Riley," he greets absently.

"Mr. Cullen," he replies, and his eyes are hard as they meet mine.

The ride to my apartment is quiet, and Edward holds my hand, occasionally looking at me with a light I do not want to see.

He dismisses Riley for the night when we arrive, and I nod to the doorman who is not Billy as Edward follows me in, and I fight the urge to move away from his hand as it rests on the small of my back.

**+.+.+.+**

Tyler answers my knock within a few seconds. He does not look surprised to see me.

"Swannie-"

"Don't _call_ me that," I snap, my existing ire blooming into simmer at his nonchalance. "Let me in."

He looks away, and does not open the door further.

"Tyler," I say, and my voice is a warning.

"I can't let you in," he mutters. "My dad talked to his friends on the board. The administration has me on lockdown."

"Of course. I forgot how much control they're capable of exerting from down in the office."

"Bella..."

"You've been awful," I tell him, and my voice is confident despite the tremor in my throat. "You've been bad and I've come to punish you."

"What? What did I do?" he asks cautiously. "I thought-"

"You told your father about me," I say flatly. "You told your father, and he told everyone. Now everyone knows."

"I'm sorry," he breathes, but his eyes are not on my face.

I follow his gaze down to my hand as it rests on the door frame, my fingers drumming an impatient tattoo on the wood.

My lips curl into a smile. "What are you thinking about, Tyler?"

He flushes, the eternal Galahad, even after all we've done. His eyes drop to the floor, but his breathing hitches ever so slightly...

"Everyone knows," I repeat. "They know how much you love it when I fuck you." I whisper, and there is only a moment before he nods.

"Let me in."

"My dad-"

"I don't give a fuck about your family, or mine for that matter."

"I can't..."

"I want you underneath me again."

There is a battle in his eyes, and I intend to win it; when he groans, it sounds like defeat.

"Let me in," I repeat slowly. "I won't tell you again."

He opens the door.

Dirty boy, I whisper, and push my way inside.

**+.+.+.+**

Underneath me, Edward writhes and hums his approval as I rake my nails down his chest.

"Do you like seeing this in the mirror?" I ask him tauntingly. "Look at all these scratches I've left. They're never going away, you know. Even after I'm gone..." I dig into him. "You're going to see these and remember this."

"Just where... do you think you're going?" he groans as I lean down, lapping at the marks my nails have left on his torso.

"That isn't any of your business," I laugh, but there is something that pulls, flutters and struggles to be free.

Hope is a thing with feathers, something in me whispers.

Edward smirks and rocks his hips against me, supine and satisfied to watch me score his flesh.

"What do you want, Edward?" I demand, lifting off of him long enough to unzip his trousers and release him. My fingers tease his cock as he watches me, and his hands ball into fists on either side of him.

"I want in," he answers clearly.

I open my mouth to tease him, to tell him I'll let him inside when I'm ready-

And then I hear it-

Pounding.

We both freeze, and his stare heats my profile. "Are you expecting company?" he asks sharply. I am too surprised to punish his tone.

The knocking on the door continues, and I move. "Wait here," I say brusquely. "Don't you dare leave this bed."

He nods. I can feel his eyes on me as I grab my silk robe, tying the belt and hurrying for the door.

**+.+.+.+**

Love has poisoned her, Ilse said of my mother.

I remember those words in the summer months, as Carlisle and Esme greet our family in front of their home, as the men shake hands and the women eye each other sharply, despite all they have in common.

The darkness in Esme's eyes has a mate in my mother's gaze, its cousin shadowing the hollows in both of their faces as, well-bred to the last, they exchange hellos.

"You look so grown up, Isabella," Esme says kindly, quietly. "How old are you now?"

I tell her I'll be eleven in September and she tells me I'm a lady now, that she wishes she had a daughter just like me.

"Having a daughter of one's own is a blessing," my mother says, too sweetly, and Esme's flinch is almost imperceptible.

**+.+.+.+**

The knocking continues as I glance through the peephole, looking briefly before yanking the door open to reveal a tall young man in a dark suit. It's almost midnight, but there is a pristine American flag pin attached to his lapel like he's come straight from a Young Republicans brunch on Dupont Circle.

"Ms. Swan," he says quietly. "I'm sorry to disturb you this late-"

"Who are you?"

"Paul Strickland. I work for your father."

"What are you doing here?"

"Your father hasn't been able to reach you on your phone."

"I don't use it. If he wanted me to call, he should have told Dr. Cope."

"I'll be sure to let him know that. In the meantime, you're needed at home."

"Why?"

"Your father asked that I put you on a jet tonight. I can explain on the way."

"I'm not leaving until I know what's going on."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly aggravated, and I look him over again. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, probably fresh out of law school and looking for a way into the upper echelons of Washington. His father and my father probably golf together.

"Ms. Swan, there's been an accident. Your father insisted that I bring you back tonight."

Unmoving, I stare at him.

"It's your mother," he continues, completely out of his element and wishing I would shut up, pack up, load up so he can look good, so he can upgrade to a bigger flag pin, a better office.

"What happened?" I ask. My tone could be used to discuss weather.

"Ms. Swan," he entreats, discomfort and impatience and pity his tone and I _know_.

I know.

**+.+.+.+**

Your mother is dead.

Your father wants to see you.

Your mother is dead.

Words on a loop, around and around, circling my lungs with robes of thistles and thorns and squeezing, tightening...

My fingers are pale on the dark wood of the door frame as they press, listless. They look almost alien in the dimness of the foyer.

Breathe, I think, and breathe and breathe again.

Your mother is dead.

Your mother is dead.

Your mother is-

"Bella?"

His voice is behind me, concern and confusion and I cannot face him, I cannot turn around, I cannot give him one more part of me without cracking, crumbling, breaking into something less, something foolish.

Paul's apologetic expression fades into something bland as he looks behind me, and I know what he sees, what he's heard of me by the way his eyes sharpen, by the neutral set of his mouth as he looks back at me.

"I'll come back," he says. It is a promise and a warning.

And then he walks away, and I am left standing in my doorway, frozen as ever.

I feel nothing, tremendously void, terribly blank, staying still, tensing and trying not to shake as inside there is a tremor, a stirring of something dark and cruel and ugly that waits underneath, watches me with narrowed, gleeful eyes as it anticipates my weakness and its own liberation. The tatters of dark wings spread, and the span of them is a shadow across my vision as there is a shift, a shake, a whisper of the fault line threatening to run the length of me.

"Are you alright?" Edward asks quietly; I recoil at the compassion in his tone.

The shadow darkens, the fault line frees itself and I am torn like the temple curtain, splitting, falling, suspended by nothing.

Run, run, run-

But to where?

Power and control, gone.

Stupid, stupid Bella, the dark thing whispers. What were you thinking, bringing him here?

"Isabella, "Edward says again, but his voice is firmer and he's moving toward me, I can hear his steps come closer.

He is closer, he will touch me and turn me and I cannot, I will turn myself or I will run, run, run—

Your mother is dead.

Nothing really matters.

The queen is dead,

Long live the queen.

Breathe, and breathe again, gird and guard and _go_...

I turn to face him, and the darkness trembles.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	18. Because She Chose to Turn

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain

stitching her eyes before she made a sound...

Her body flaked into transparent salt,

and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem

too insignificant for our concern?

Yet in my heart I never will deny her,

who suffered death because she chose to turn.

[Anna Akhmatova, "Lot's Wife"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"You're shivering," he says quietly.

Because I am cold, I think.

He hears me anyway, thoughtful frown and seeking hands, and encircles my stiff form within his arms.

**+.+.+.+**

We are two weeks into our month-long stay with the Masens when Ilse tells me our family is moving to the guesthouse.

"Apparently there's been a family emergency," she explains. "Some of Mr. Masen's relatives will be in the house, and he thought it best to allow them as much privacy as possible."

"Then why can't they stay in the guest house?"

"Don't be rude, Bella. You'll like your new room - it overlooks the garden."

"Can you see the maze from my bedroom?"

"I'm sure you can."

"Can I go through the maze to get to the house?"

"You aren't going into that monstrosity," she replies. "You have the rest of the estate to play on."

"I've seen the rest of it. It's boring."

"Perhaps you need someone to play with," she muses. "We will have to pray for a little girl to come visit you."

Two days later, Ilse's prayers yield impressive results.

**+.+.+.+**

Contained by the strong, lean cords of his arms, my body continues to tremble violently and it will not obey, it will not stop but he is still here, still holding and I do not know what that means.

Stupid, stupid Bella, I think, but even my musings are subdued in their confusion, neurons firing desperately, weakly offering thoughts and memories at random, synapses working, working like a shark that cannot stop swimming.

So I open my mouth to tell him to go but my teeth chatter and all I can tell him is, Cold, I'm so cold.

His arms release me a moment later and I am gently pulled, led down the hallway toward my bedroom.

"Come on," he coaxes, and shaking, I go, my mind grasping desperately for quotes, words, philosophers' thoughts on the merits of striving in the face of futility.

**+.+.+.+**

"All of these parties," Ilse huffs, watching from the lawn as the Masens' staff prepares for yet another evening of dinner, dancing and cocktails. "Human beings were not meant to celebrate each other this much."

"Do you think that's why mother stays in bed all day?" I ask, annoyed at the effect the removal to the guest house has had on my ability to peruse the rooms in the main house. There is a chill in my mother's dealings with Masens, for all the smooth manners between Carlisle and my father, and it is easier to stay away, to play outside and avoid the awkward, forced niceties of our hosts, especially now that there is new company in the main house.

We are polite pariahs as Carlisle Masen attends to his mysterious relatives, and the boredom is stifling.

"I'm sure it does not help," Ilse answers, frowning, and her tone brooks no further discussion.

Later, my mother rises from her bed, pale as ever, and I watch her transform from a shell of herself into a woman worthy of bearing the name of the graceful birds in the lake outside.

"Isabella will eat her dinner here tonight," she absently tells Ilse.

"But I'm dressed for the party," I protest.

"Then dress in something else. It's unheard of for a child to keep adult company as often as you do."

"Isn't there another little girl in the main house now?" I demand.

"Carlisle's daughter is none of your business," she snaps. "And I don't want you nosing around that family anymore."

Ilse sighs, but does not make me change, and later, does not tell me no when I ask if I can play in the garden.

**+.+.+.+**

The bathroom amplifies the sound of our breathing as Edward fiddles with the faucet and then there is a hiss, a rush, and water streams, steams the empty shower stall.

He undresses me quickly, but I feel the light press of his lips on the skin he so deftly uncovers and I want to tell him, I want to say the words and make them real and face them, forget them.

My mother, I want to say clearly and calmly, but my throat convulses, my tongue tripping and failing and falling on the syllables until I am stammering, mangling the words that my mother, my mother is dead.

He comes around to face me, large hands cupping my face and eyes full of pity, full of concern.

The warmth of his fingers stays on my skin even after he drops his hands, places us under the spray of the shower head, winds himself around me again and holds my head to his chest.

The steady step of his heartbeat echoes in my skull, and we are both silent.

**+.+.+.+**

The austerity of the main house is put away for parties, its grey exterior adorned with the glow of a house lit from within. The garden paths around the maze are festive now, illuminated by their wrought-iron lamps, and they light my way to the service entrance of the main house. The kitchen is a battlefield of pots and pans and trays and starched white uniforms, and I maneuver through it quickly until I am out, through a door and climbing the back stairs within moments, sweaty fingers dragging along the butternut paneling, seeking my favorite party-gazing spot behind the banister beams on the landing to the third floor.

And then I am there, my legs folded underneath me as I gaze down at the fete from my impromptu perch. Colors and light and laughter float up in a cocktail of manners and sophistication mixed with just enough alcohol to make everything louder.

I have done this before, and I relish this role as the lone lookout planted in my own private crow's nest. I spot my parents down below, glittering and smiling, marvelous and in their element. My father is handsome in his white tie and tails, a worthy escort of my mother, whose pale skin and scarlet dress attracts almost every eye but his.

Cocktail hour nears its end as my mother's laugh draws my gaze back to her, her face tilted up, smiling coyly at a man whose face I cannot see, whose only visibly distinctive feature, tousled and longer than refinement allows, is hair the color of a burnished penny.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward washes me, cloth on my skin and fingers in my hair as I shiver, tremble like a virgin and freeze.

He does not tell me that I am okay, that everything will be alright. He does not say anything as he presses his mouth to the inside of my wrist, lips pressing against my pulse.

He is quick, smooth in his movements but his brow remains furrowed in concern and I hate this, I think, but something inside screams in protest, mutinous as ever.

**+.+.+.+**

He is a nameless, handsome young man escorting my mother out of his father's formal dining room, tall and lean, dripping old and new money in a tuxedo with an air of dishevelment in the crooked bow-tie, in the scruff on his handsome face. He looks like the college boys who work for my father; the only thing missing is an American flag pin on his lapel.

Handsome, even features, sharp jaw and white teeth, a grin that seems to cut a swathe into the haughty aloofness of society ingénues.

He listens politely to my mother for a few minutes before excusing himself, leaving her to other company and making his way to the bar. I watch him walk across the room, watch the eyes of the women trail and cling to him, secret, quiet smiles pasted onto their flawless faces.

A woman I have seen my mother pretend to like approaches him at the bar and they stand and talk and drink and laugh as I sit alone on my perch, wondering what it would be like to be older, to be beautiful and brilliant and wanted by someone like him.

My eyes follow them as they drink and laugh and leave through the terrace doors.

**+.+.+.+**

I am dried and laid down, and his calm and his care surround me like a noxious gas, seeping and rendering me still, lifeless and naked as he takes his place beside me.

The walls of my bedroom stare down in chastened silence, in guilt and pity, but even their judgment is an element within a universe created for me, a world unimaginable without the icy, hostile visage of my mother.

Unimaginable.

And yet,

and yet.

Loss is not a spectre, nor an ominous shadow come to steal. It is not the chill in my bones, not the quickening breath in my chest, not the trembling that has long since overwhelmed the rest of me.

I do not feel the way a child should feel at her mother's passing.

I do not feel anything.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'll leave," I tell her once, taut and trembling with rage after she tells me, once again, exactly why I am not the daughter she wanted.

But my words are deflected by her derisive laugh like pebbles ricocheting off of armor. "And go where?" she asks bitingly, eyebrows high and lips curled into a sneer.

"Away," I retort, but it is an empty threat and she knows it.

**+.+.+.+**

All is silent, all is still, but my memories play out across the moulded ceiling, faded images of two people who chased the American Dream and the small, pale daughter who could never quite keep up.

"I haven't lost my mother," I say to the ceiling, and Edward stiffens in confusion beside me. I feel his frown without turning my head.

"You told me in the shower-" he begins.

"I haven't lost my mother," I repeat. "I never had her."

He is quiet again, cautious and I can tell that he's waiting on my words by the patient tension that hums through his frame.

Tell him, tell him.

Maybe he will listen.

No one listens.

He is different.

They're all the same.

Run, run, run.

But rest awhile first.

The walls on all sides urge me to step onto the altar, lay myself down and cut myself open and watch as my own blood spreads, spills rubies across the cold floor before him, seeping across to his black Armani dress shoes as he stands, stays and waits and listens.

Time crawls on in silence, dragging us behind it but I have nothing, there is no altar and there are no more words.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks quietly.

My voice is flat when I tell him that there's nothing else to say.

"Then say what you're thinking."

I pause, breathe,

And tell him the truth: "Nothing."

"Then what do you feel?"

"I don't."

He does not respond, and I cannot see his face.

**+.+.+.+**

All I can see is her face.

My mother possesses an extraordinary control of her features. Sitting still and straight beside her in church, I divide my time between staring at the architecture and looking up to her stoically attentive profile, envying her her blankness, her ability to control the face she shows to God.

I strive for that same blankness whenever Ilse dodges my questions about "the Cullen boy."

"What's his first name?" I ask.

"From what I can tell, he doesn't go by his first name, and I do not know him," she tells me wearily. "If you are so curious, perhaps you should play with his sister. I'm sure she would be happy to tell you all about him."

"Mother said Alice is still sad about her mother and won't want to play with me."

"Of course she's sad about her mother, the woman's been dead for a week." She sighs at the disappointment in my expression. "But your mother may be right. Perhaps it is not a good idea to make new friends with Alice. At least, not this time."

I am annoyed at the rebuff but later, Alice is forgotten as I watch _him _during the evening entertainments at the main house.

He moves throughout these social functions with the grace and guile of natural predator, cocksure and calm as girls flirt, flit around him. It's Cullen, I watch them mouth to each other as he moves through a party, smiling and leaning down to whisper things and watching them blush with a knowing grin and I am not ignorant to the idea of sex, but there is something in his manner that advertises what I've only heard adults whisper about; each one of his movements is a promise of something illicit.

I watch from above as he smiles, kisses hands and leans down to whisper things that make his confidantes blush. I watch as his face loses all traces of polite interest when he thinks no one is looking.

He's bored to tears with these people, and yet they dance to his tune with the grace of a marionette troupe. It seems as though no woman is unaffected by him.

Including my mother.

"He's a lovely boy," she sighs once to my father and he agrees, nods, oblivious to the telltale flush that mars her porcelain skin as the lovely boy in question disappears through the terrace doors and into the garden, a giggling girl on each arm.

**+.+.+.+**

I flinch when he speaks, jarred from the hypnotic stillness by the low hum of his voice.

"Do you know Tom Stoppard?"

"The playwright?"

"Yes," he replies, rolling over to his side to face me. "'Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over. Death is not anything... death is not... It's the absence of presence, nothing more... the endless time of never coming back... a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes not sound...'"

The words arrange themselves in my mind, aligning perfectly and unlocking memories of evenings spent staring at a stage in rapt attention. "Is that...?"

"_Rosencrantz and Guildenstern_. It's my favorite play."

I stare at him, processing what he's saying.

"The American Shakespeare Center mounts productions of it every so often..." he continues. "I've seen it several times."

Such a curious choice, and I feel my attention drifting away from the shadow pressing into my chest at the thought of Edward Cullen enjoying a play. "Why?"

"Because I like it."

"But why do you like it?"

He exhales heavily, thoughtfully rubbing his face before speaking. "I like the way Stoppard treats the characters. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern behave as if they are absolutely powerless - they're ridiculously passive, to the point where, when they _do_ have a chance to change the course of the story, they intentionally remain powerless, and it eventually ends up killing them."

"That doesn't explain why you like it," I argue, and his lips curl into a small smile as his fingers dance across my neck until they begin toying gently with a strand of my hair.

"Fine, then," he says after several moments. "I like the play because it's absurd. I like it because its absurdity is planted firmly in the real world."

"In your world?"

"I think so."

"Your world has elements of the absurd to it, then."

"Of course it does."

I turn my head to look at him, at the solemn profile and smooth, sharp lines of his nose and chin. "Tell me."

"What do you want to know?" he sighs.

And I am honest again as I tell him: "Everything."

Seconds drag by, languorous and empty; I'm wondering if he intends to ignore me when he begins to speak, his words measured and flat.

"Okay, well every morning, I wake up in a real, live ivory tower... my drapes slide open with the alarm and then there's the world, a skyline that's full of buildings that are full of people who would probably kill to be where I am and who I am. I get ready for work, put on a suit and as I'm tying my necktie it's- Manhattan's just... there. Watching me.

"Then I get in the car, get my coffee, and I go to yet another ivory tower, and there I tell people to tell other people what to do with their money, and how the random choices of others could possibly turn a profit for them, and doing so turns a profit for me. And you know what? The whole time I'm telling them this, I have this overwhelming urge to just fucking stop and say, you know what? This is a crapshoot. I have no fucking clue. Good luck. But do you know why I can't say that?"

I shake my head, although I'm sure I do know. Something within me wants his voice.

"Because my mother was Elizabeth Hale Cullen, and she decided who and what I would be before she even knew I existed. I was raised to know what made people money, what made _us_ money, and I watched people treat my mother like a fucking goddess because she was good at her job, and because her father before her was good at his job, and his father before him, et cetera, ad nauseam.

"Any world where people like my mother can donate millions to homeless shelters while rolling her eyes at bums on the street is absurd, Isabella. Money and power and this... these big, shiny Manhattan buildings. It's a pantomime of reality. It's grotesque. And I can't say that to anyone else because that's not who I am to them - that's not who my mother created me to be.

"I was raised to exist inside a very specific bubble, and the only way I'm still sane is because I decided to do certain things my own way- Bella?"

Man down, man down, I think, and I am sitting up, breathing hard and hand at my chest, shadowed wings flapping frantically against the edges of my own memories as the weight of past words comes crashing into me. My chest is tight and my hands are shaking and there is a noise, a wail, a keening howl of something desolate that echoes against my bedroom walls.

Hush, hush you'll wake the neighbors, I want to say, and Edward is behind me and his arms are around me as I sob and shake like a mad thing, a wail of shame and something else clawing its way out of my chest.

I am not free, I want to tell him. I am as trapped as I ever was, but this time, this time I don't think I want to leave.

**+.+.+.+**

"What's a pretty girl like you doing up here by yourself?" a voice asks from behind me.

I whirl around from my spot on the landing, coming face to face with the crisp, clean lines of a well-made tuxedo and the planes of his face.

_His_. Cullen's.

"Well?" he repeats, eyebrows up, and I want to tell him that I watch, that I see, that I want to know where he takes his women once they're through the terrace doors.

But all I can whisper instead is that I want to watch the party.

He smirks. "Watching it is probably more fun than being down there. Let me know if anything interesting happens, won't you?"

I nod.

He passes me to continue down the stairs, and I am staring at his back when he stops midway and turns back around. "What's your name?"

Isabella, I almost say, but then I remember: I don't know his name.

"I want to know yours first," I tell him.

"Call me Cullen."

"That's not your name."

"It's what I prefer," he says shortly.

I sit up straight. "Then I prefer 'Swan.'"

"Alright, then." He smiles indulgently. "Or how about 'Swannie'?"

"Swan," I correct him.

"Not yet, you're not," he laughs, starting down the stairs again, and his last words are thrown carelessly to me over his shoulder. "Maybe someday."

He melts seamlessly into the crowd of guests below, but I do not lose sight of him. Once again, I watch him play his game as the evening unfolds, quiet smiles and knowing smirks and long, pale fingers deftly touching innocent places with illicit promise.

And then there is the terrace door, his arm locked around the small waist of a laughing young woman with eyes that stare up at him adoringly, his smile cold and thin.

They are going to the garden.

And trembling, I follow.

**+.+.+.+**

The world has dissolved into something less familiar, more frightening.

Minutes stretch into something more substantial as Edward murmurs things into my ear that I do not quite hear or understand, the words lost in the thundering of my pulse and the whirlwind of oxygen crashing through my lungs as I breathe, and breathe and breathe some more, and that's the point, isn't it? of life, to breathe and keep breathing and to live and last.

My mother is not breathing now, those lungs that once delivered her disgust into the atmosphere are now deflated, shriveled and expired somewhere in her chest, somewhere, wherever she is. She will have no more breaths, no more words, and I cannot find it within myself to be more than sickly fascinated that this woman, this titan, could be felled by something so mundane as a lack of a heartbeat.

Breathless bones, ruins. A memorial to mortality.

I want something other than silence, now. I want sounds, songs, some noise to fill the void, if only to hear itself echo.

"Tell me about your mother," I whisper, and he stiffens.

"What about her?"

"Tell me why you hate her."

He makes a small huffing noise. "I don't hate her."

"Then what?"

"I don't know, exactly. I used to hate her... I spent most of my teens and twenties hating her, but- well, I just don't anymore."

"I don't think I believe you," I reply, frowning. "It can't be that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because I know how the world works."

"Really? You've figured it all out, have you?"

"I've figured out enough to know that hate isn't a simple emotion. Not simple enough to fade overnight."

"Spoken like one who thinks she hates her mother. But hate isn't an emotion, Isabella. It's a choice."

"So wise," I sneer. "You don't know anything."

In a matter of instants, he is no longer beside me but above me, holding his weight on his hands and knees as his eyes stare intently into mine.

"I'm good at what I do because I possess the ability to simplify issues which others have made unnecessarily complex," he says, quiet and fierce and firm. "It's a gift."

"You're good at what you do because mommy made you into something that would turn a respectable profit," I retort.

"Like her mother and her mother's mother before her. And your mother, I think. We've all been cast in a mold."

"What do men know about molds?" I scoff.

"You don't think men have unfair expectations placed upon them?"

"I think most men don't give a shit what people expect of them."

"That's a broad brushstroke," he says, quiet and light. "What about politicians? You think presidents operate independently of the electorate's expectations?"

I freeze, and a shadow of suspicion passes over my mind. I wonder exactly how much he knows as I try to control my voice. "Presidents care once or twice," I concede flatly. "Enough to make people like them every four years." I sigh, because there is an art to remaining respectable, and I know that he and I have been trained very differently in the ins and outs of maintaining propriety. "Women are the bearers of honor and shame in my world. That's more than surging in the polls in time to win an election."

He stares at me intently. "You really believe that," he murmurs, incredulous.

"Peter Ustinov thought it was true... 'through pressure of conformity, there is freedom of choice, but nothing to choose from.'"

He regards me silently for several moments, but when he speaks, he smiles. "'I, for one, hope that youth will again revolt and again demoralize the dead weight of conformity that now lies upon us.' Howard Mumford Jones."

"I'm doing what I can," I sigh, my eyes slipping shut with exhaustion, with the desire to escape. Click my heels three times and begone, begone.

"What, revolting?" he asks.

I nod.

"And what is this revolt for? Are you railing against a system built on inequality? Or are you another little rich girl with mommy/daddy issues?" I open my eyes to glare at him, only to find his face closer to mine than I'd thought, his gaze settled intently on my own. "Revolts happen when there's a lack of freedom, but you seem to pride yourself on your independence. So which is it, Bella?" he whispers. "Are you a slave to conformity, or are you truly as free from convention as you claim to be?"

"I'm my own person," I snap.

"And yet, so resentful of convention, almost as if it still has a hold on you."

I have had enough of talking.

"Fuck convention," I hiss, grabbing his face and opening my legs, using my body to pull him closer. "Fuck _me_."

Slowly, he lowers himself until his hips and torso flush against me, eyes on mine and fingers in my hair. "Let me show you something," he says, pressing tender touches on my scalp, his thumbs brushing away stray tears that have streaked down my temples.

"You're going too slow."

But he ignores me. "You're not free," he breathes. "Not yet. But you're beautiful."

"Stop it."

"Why?" he frowns.

"Because I don't need to hear that."

"It's true."

"Of course it's true. You wouldn't fuck me if I wasn't beautiful."

He frowns. "Enough of the bitter. Sweet is just as good."

But sweet is ephemeral, and his eyes are warm but I remember my mother's hollow, heart-cold laugh. "Sweet isn't real."

"I'm real," he says against my jaw.

"You don't know me."

"Don't underestimate me," he warns, and his mouth descends upon mine, and I give in, a speck of ash caught in the bellows of a zephyr, and this is not the heat of him writhing beneath me, this is a fire, flames licking and spreading and sprawling across me, and I sweat, melt underneath him as glass-green eyes open and stare into mine, flashing with something I do not want to see and I am captive, captivated once again, even as my muscles scream and burn with the urge to leave, to leave, to run.

He shushes, strokes and tries to soothe, makes me fit against him, slides inside as I am wracked with tremors, tensing and shaking and stilling and locking like one possessed, like a demoniac in a sea of sacred Latin.

"God," he grunts as I receive him, and my fingers claw gratefully at his shoulders as he curls and unfurls above me, and this is different, this is foreign, this is uncharted territory, he is a new world and I could step and step and trip and tip right over, right off the edge of him and here be monsters, something warns, hisses and what to do? what to do? but cry in confusion as a world of ice begins to melt, as seas rise and my shores are flooded, my lungs are filled with the same salty streams that are running down old tracks on my temples, soaking Edward's fingers as they cradle my face.

I gasp against him, pleasure and anguish running like quicksilver through my veins and Ammut, Ammut - how did you remain so cold, standing by that lake of fire?

Artemis, how could you have mistaken him for Actaeon? The man above me is no naive youth, but his past and his present combined into The Alodae, into vanquishing twins that set their hearts to conquer.

Alice, you fool, you've swallowed the wrong pill.

Crazy, crazy, crazy- or not- but either way, condemned.

I have not conquered him, he is not cowed. He moves above me, grace and fire and groaning as my cunt begins to flutter around him and then there is a burst, a blast and I am caught in the epicenter as our voices bounce off of walls that, for once, avert their gazes.

This is different.

_He_ is different, and I have known that, of course, but still-

I am done for.

Let me go, I hiss, and struggle, struggle, struggle against this beautiful boy, this old monster in the maze.

Let me go.

But he only tightens his arms, breath hot on my neck as he whispers things, precious and terrifying things that only make my disintegrating world flood faster.

Too much, too much, too much, and the waters ever rise higher, pressing and holding my limbs and I cannot breathe. Let me go, I beg the rising levels. Let me float.

The water gives me nothing, and the steel of his arms anchors me to the seabed.

**+.+.+.+**

Pale, moonlit skin fills my vision as the long, lean lines of him move.

Beneath him is his beautiful creature, fragile and small, her fine-boned ankles locked behind naked, trim hips as he ruts into her like a mad thing. Fascinated, I stare, my innocent eyes drinking in every detail, this new knowledge made sweeter by its forbidden nature.

She is panting, gasping, yelling things in ecstasy, exhilarated as she calls out to him.

Cullen, Cullen, Cullen, she cries.

"Someone's going to hear you," he hisses, but she is oblivious to the venom in his voice.

She does not stop moaning and he steps away from her, smirking as she begs for more, more, more.

Will he stop? I wonder.

But then he grabs her by the waist and pulls her off the bench, turning her to face away from him in cruelly quick movements. He pushes her forward at the waist, her hands on the grey stone slab of the bench and then he is back and bending over her and she is pleading for him to give more, to not stop, to be harder and harder and harder.

A foreign feeling continues to bleed through me, an odd sensation blooming in my chest, an alien warmth between my legs. I am both captive and captivated to the tableau before me.

Minutes pass in which I cannot look away, equally sickened and exhilarated, and then she is screaming, exulting and he is telling her to shut up, shut up but she does not stop, and the garden maze is filled with the sounds of her boisterously crowing his name.

He slows, moving against her a few more times with a long, low noise, and then he stops.

And now the garden is filled with the sounds of their breathing, harsh and heavy.

I am shivering.

They separate after several moments, and she collapses onto her back on the bench as he begins re-dressing. Laughing and light, she reaches out to touch the leg of his trousers. She pouts as he slaps her hand away.

"Get dressed," he says curtly.

"What's the rush?" she asks, languidly fondling one of her breasts. "We haven't been gone long."

"Long enough."

She sits up, her face shadowed by hedges and moonlight. "You're my first," she says quietly.

He laughs. "I sincerely doubt that."

She begins to argue in a soft whine, but I am newly flushed, both with what I've seen and with the realization that they will come this way when they are finished, they will pass me and see me.

I begin to back away, but the gravel crunches beneath me, and the sounds of my movement are no longer camouflaged by the noises of the couple on the other side of the hedge.

Through the branches, I can faintly see his head snap up.

"Who's there?" he asks flatly.

I do not twitch one muscle, but my breathing grows harsher. The woman hastily begins tugging on her dress.

"Someone's behind the hedge," he tells her with a smirk. "Let's hope it's not your father."

She says something and he snaps at her to be quiet as I take another step back, and the gravel is just as loud as the first time and the moonlight makes his face coldly radiant as he smiles.

"I hear you," he calls in a sing-song tone.

And then he is moving.

And I am running,

running,

running.

And even the hounds of hell cannot catch me.

**+.+.+.+**

All is silent, all is still.

His arm stretches across my naked waist, holding me to him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks again.

This will never be enough, I want to tell him.

I'll never be enough.

Bright eyes stare searchingly into me from beneath a brow furrowed in thought. "Tell me."

So I do, and his frown grows deeper.

"You're wrong," he says firmly.

"You're wrong," I echo. "You don't know me."

"You keep saying that."

"It's true."

"Do I have to know everything about you before you believe that I... that I care about you?"

I shrug.

"That sounds boring," he sighs. "Absolutely, indisputably boring. And I know how much you hate boredom."

My answering smile is thin.

**+.+.+.+**

The night air is a welcome sting on my face as I step outside the bar, the rowdy sounds of Apotheke swiftly fading as the door shuts behind me.

Several yards away, the streetlights throw his figure into the shadows, his tall, straight form leaving a grotesquely stretched version of itself on the pavement behind him as he walks.

And I follow.

A few cabs pass, but he does not hail one, and so neither do I.

The minutes pass slowly, but my heart is racing as we continue up the street.

I remember the coldness in his eyes, the handsome, heartless smile from my childhood. The chase he began, years before, now slowed to a cold city stroll, the hedge walls replaced by imposing brick and steel facades rising into the sky on either side of us.

I am not a girl anymore, and I'm sure I could be his type, but I am not something to be caught.

Second Avenue stretches before us, and my teeth chatter as the chill settles into my spine but still he walks, and still I follow.

He stumbles once, and I can hear the occasional muttered invective toward God and humanity and sidewalks in general as he goes.

He is drunk.

He was Adonis and Narcissus and Cupid, all rolled together in an obscenely beautiful, cruel beast that fed on the silly little hearts of the females in his acquaintance. He flirted, fucked, assured aging women of their allure, and drew the young ladies toward the discovery of desire.

And now, this is my sun god, after all these years, the monster in the maze whose rutting silhouette has shown me my own desire: to own, to be free, to never, ever be a nameless fuck like one of his women; to never live in subjugation to the caprice of male desire. He walks in front of me still, an inebriated pseudo-lech who stumbles through the city streets at night like an old bum. He cannot be poor, unless his father cut him off.

I wonder what has happened to him.

I wonder what he's become.

I wonder many things, many things about the man whose face I see constantly, whose first name I never discovered.

My father's face, frustration and resignation in his eyes, flashes before me.

There are only so many chances I can give you, he said.

New York is a place to start over, he said.

But New York is where he is, where I am and at the head of the ouroboros, there is nowhere to go but down and around again.

My feet are sore and freezing when he finally stops and enters a brightly lit diner with a cheery cherry-red storefront. There is a large logo on the glass door: The Morningstar Diner.

Why did we walk all this way?

I want to know more. I want to know it all.

From the sidewalk, I watch as he sits at a table, glances at a menu. I cannot hear him, but I am looking at his lips as he winks at his waitress and says, "I'll have the usual."

She walks away, and his head falls into his hands. He is the picture of fatigue, of world-weariness.

Where have you been? I wonder.

I could go in right now, sit at his table and flirt, possibly win a trip to a hotel room or, god forbid, his apartment. But women do that to him frequently, I'm sure, and whatever I do will not be on his terms.

Self-control. Temperance.

Patience.

There is a moment of mad whimsy, of looking into the eye of the fates and making a deal:

I will come back, and I will wait.

And he will come, or not.

But either way, I will not chase him-

yet.

Here is the middle of the maze, the heart of the city, and the only plan I have is to pick him apart and watch him squirm.

He ordered "the usual," and I know I will see him here again.

It is with this plan in mind that I hail a cab back to TriBeCa, mind racing and heart full of something both familiar and foreign.

The game is on.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	19. Of Towers, Of Turrets

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Sex contains all,

Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,

Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;

All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,

All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,

All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,

These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.

[Walt Whitman, "A Woman Waits for Me"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

The delicate pastel hues of dawn tint the silent walls, and I am still in Edward's arms.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers against my shoulder, and I open my mouth to answer.

But I do not know.

**+.+.+.+**

"I shouldn't be gone longer than an hour or two," Edward mutters absently, hastily tucking his shirt into his suit pants, his hair the color of candlelight in the late morning sun. "You'll be okay until then?"

"I can fend for myself," I reply.

He eyes my naked form still tangled in the rumpled sheets. "Good," he finally says with a nod, grabbing his jacket. "Have you seen my tie?"

I am not a liar, so I choose not to answer, watching as he gives my bedroom a rushed once-over before shaking his head and walking away.

Then he is gone and I am left nestled amongst the bedclothes, staring at the ceiling, the silk of his Ferragamo necktie absently drawn through a never-ending loop between my restless fingers.

**+.+.+.+**

"What is it about these men that fascinates you?" Dr. Cope asks. Her frown deepens the parallel creases between her immaculately groomed eyebrows.

"I don't think I can answer that question."

"Is it power?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do know, Isabella."

"Do you?"

"I think you know why the answer to this question is important. We need to find out if there's a pattern to these fixations so we can help you manage them."

"Have they been unmanageable before?"

"You tell me. Were you in control when you attacked Congressman Black?"

"I wasn't out of control."

"What about Tyler?"

"What _about_ Tyler?" I ask, annoyed.

"The marks on his neck and shoulders-"

"I knew what I was doing."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I'd read about it."

"Mmhm. So you were in control?"

"Of course."

"And that's important for you."

My silence is my answer.

**+.+.+.+**

It is my family's last night in London and the evening is marked with another soiree, another bird's eye view of the light and laughter downstairs, my spindly arms and frail wrists showing stark white against the heavy-hued tones of the oak banister. It could be like any other night.

But it is not.

Below me is a sharp smile, square jaw and hair the color of a penny, moving through clusters and circles of guests, moving to and fro like a dowsing rod. The weeks of his presence have not diminished his appeal; women's eyes still follow him and I cannot put my finger on it but there is something, _something_ different, something he possesses which demands attention. Power beyond his years.

I blink, lightning-quick, as my mind replays the sights and sounds of the maze a few nights before, as my body flushes with the exhilarating, humiliating, warm burn of a new awareness. Burned against my mind's eye is an obscene cameo of pale skin, moonlight and long fingers, harsh voices and sharp sighs…

A noise above me and I start, look, half-expecting him to be standing above me in spite of just seeing him in the hall below.

But I am disappointed. There instead, on the landing, is pretty, little Alice.

"What are you doing?" she demands loudly. I scowl at her intrusiveness.

"None of your business," I whisper, but she does not go away.

"Papa said we're supposed to be in bed for the party."

"Your papa isn't in charge of me."

"He is. This is his house and he is," she argues, eyes narrowed. "He doesn't like spies."

"I'm not a spy."

I watch her face, the perfect features screwed up in concentration as she assesses my resolve.

"I'm going to tell on you," she declares finally.

"No you won't."

But she only smirks. "I'm going to tell, I'm going to tell…" she sing-songs.

"Shut up," I snarl.

"Make me. My mother said to never trust the Swans. She said your father's crooked and your mother's a gold digger."

"At least my mother's still alive," I reply coldly.

Her nostrils flare, and I watch as her perfect porcelain cheeks grow rose-red with rage, her face contorting into a caricature of itself. She takes a breath...

And then she is stomping, flailing, screaming and sobbing, and footsteps rush up the stairs as adult voices clamor, calming, coming to soothe, poor, poor Alice.

I stand by as Alice cries, parroting my last words to Carlisle, hiccoughing as he glares at me and pulls her into his arms. He carries her swiftly up the rest of the stairs and down the hall to her room, and I am left with the questioning eyes of the party.

"What's wrong with her?" is the murmur that runs through the people watching from below.

"What did you do?" my mother hisses, narrowed eyes and thin fingers wrapped in a vice around my arm.

"Nothing," I reply sullenly. Derision and disgust drip from the words, melting into the marrow of my bones. "She misses her mother."

**+.+.+.+**

Less than an hour after Edward leaves, a sharp knock on my door is the only warning I receive before I discover that, true to his word, Paul Strickland has returned.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he greets blandly, eyes taking in my dressing gown, the necktie in my hand, the decor of the foyer and the living room beyond.

"I'm sure you don't mean that."

He crosses the threshold without waiting for an invitation, arrogance and presumption and the power that comes with standing behind my father's name. "This is a beautiful apartment, Ms. Swan."

"You should let my father know you think so. He hired the decorator."

Something like pity flashes across his features. "Actually, your father was somewhat indisposed before you relocated. I hired the decorator."

I nod, unsurprised. "Why are you here?" I ask impatiently.

"If you'll remember what I told you last night, your father would like you to be home during this difficult time. I've been sent to accompany you back to Washington." He smirks. "Are you going to invite me to sit down?"

"I'm sure you'll make yourself at home, with or without an invitation. By the way, I'm perfectly capable of traveling alone."

"Your father insisted."

I sigh, annoyed. "When will I be coming back to New York after the funeral?"

"That's for you to discuss with your father," he replies absently. "Who was the man I saw here last night?"

"That's none of your concern," I answer coolly, but there is an edge to my voice.

Paul Strickland notices, and smiles. "Your father will want to know how well you're doing. How you're adjusting."

"Then he can ask me himself."

His smile flattens into a grim smirk, and I am reminded that while he may not dirty his own hands, this man in my foyer is as much a hired thug of my father's as any of the criminals Charles Swan's politicians have pledged to put away. The only difference, I muse bitterly, is that my father has the power to make me disappear without spilling a drop of blood.

The thought of this makes the car ride to Washington doubly unappealing.

Paul smiles again, but it is not a pleasant expression. "We leave for Washington at eight o'clock tomorrow. Have your bags outside."

**+.+.+.+**

"You all can be anything you want to be," the female commencement speaker declares boldly, and I watch as graduation caps all around me bob up and down in agreement, a multitude of tassels dancing cheerfully as they hail this bright new time, this age of enlightenment in which a woman is not bound to the fate of her forbears.

But I, I remain still, cold in the knowledge that there are some chains which Lady Liberty knows nothing about.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'm not going back empty-handed," Paul warns me as he leaves.

And then I watch him go, his tailored overcoat's tails whipping around his Brooks Brothers-clad legs as he strides away, but for all his bluster, any control he has exists only by the grace and favor of my father. I have witnessed natural power - the same that drove Edward's hips forward, and forward again, as they crashed into a clueless girl in a moonlit maze.

The same power I feel surging between us as he relinquishes control, only to reclaim it with a smirk and a fuck.

But my time here has been running out with or without Paul Strickland, the last sands slipping through my outstretched fingers. Clenching my fists around the errant grains will only be energy wasted, seconds lost and my mind sways with indecision as the whispers of the past grow louder.

My feet carry me to the closet, and I am on the floor and tearing open the lid of the box inside, blindly pulling out its contents until a pile of books and knick-knacks lie scattered around me. Here is the delicate statue of Artemis the Huntress, the tip of her arrow missing due to my own clumsiness in handling her. Here are my drawings and my thoughts, my privacy and my wants, fantasies splayed vulnerably across years of pages.

_I want to lose a battle to him and win a war against him_, I wrote once, and my fingers follow those words in my own dated scrawl.

Either way, Edward is lost to me, lost to the truth that I am not a game he can win. A shudder runs through my abdomen as I sit, frozen, and imagine abandoning the battlefield of his nakedness, of never again feeling the triumph of wringing completion from him as he strains, grunts and groans against me.

Even now, I can feel his fingers in the corner of my mouth, pulling as he pushes against me. Be good, he gasped against me, then. Be good.

And I've been good.

So good.

"I've been a good, good girl," I whisper, fingers pressed against the stark black words. For the first time that I can remember, I am growing tired of this game. The walls of this world are always, always waiting to close in, to crash and crush against me until I am beaten, broken and bone-tired.

I've been so good.

But now there is Edward, his caring and his kisses and his pushing and pulling and patience and words that slip just so, sharp and smooth beneath my skin. His fingers press against me like tenterhooks, holding and stretching, even as he soothes, and I know he means to keep me.

But I do not want to be kept - I want to be free.

Free of his heat and his pointed, searching looks and his surrender. Free of the weight of us, our bodies suspended by gossamer thread above an open flame. This cannot last. Leave, or watch him go.

You're caught now, my mother's ghost goads. I close my eyes and the illusion is complete, her ire rising from the pages between my hands.

"I'll leave," I tell her.

Ah, yes, she retorts. You'll leave and he'll move on and you will still pretend you're free, pretend, pretend!

Pretend for a few minutes that you're not just like me, that what you have isn't based on what you can do to moneyed men with your cunt.

I was chained to one man, Isabella, but you are chained to all of them, linked by history and sickness.

Your father's created your world, showed you what is required, and yet you fail and fail and cannot leave.

Freedom, I think wildly. Is this freedom?

It's the only freedom you'll have from the Kingmaker, my mother's voice hisses mockingly.

Pretend and pretend, Isabella, and fall away from your ivory tower all the while. Mind the turrets, my dear.

No, I whisper, but the sound is lost in her laugh.

**+.+.+.+**

I am seventeen, and the streets of London are heavy with memories of young summers and pale, trembling limbs lit by moonlight. Every man is a possibility; every tall, lean figure I see could be him.

Beside the Thames River, my classmates crowd the sidewalk outside the Tate Britain gallery as we are herded inside by our trip chaperones. The sounds of London fade as we enter the grand foyer, and we begin our tour of the gallery in reverent quietude.

Time dances a slow, graceful ballet as we move through the exhibits and I am looking, always looking, for something that will show me myself.

And then, it is in front of me, and, graciously, Time pauses its steps as I take it in.

Before me, a sculpture of lovers cling to one another in an erotic embrace, their figures pressed together, held not only by passion, but by the twine wrapped tightly around their frozen forms. Captivated, and captive.

"Rodin's 'The Kiss,' re-imagined," the curator closest to me explains in reverent tones. "Tate Britain is exhibiting it as a piece by Cornelia Parker. The artist wrapped Rodin's sculpture in one mile of string to represent the 'claustrophobia of relationships.' You'll notice the contrast of the two materials: the high culture of the marble, and the low culture of the twine."

If I look hard enough, the faces beneath the twine become more familiar.

"Fascinating," I breathe, and mean it.

**+.+.+.+**

The late afternoon sun casts the terrace in violent orange and yellow, and I am still in my dressing gown when Edward returns with a tense jaw and furrowed brow, offering me absent apologies for his hasty departure, for attending the last-minute meeting and leaving me alone.

"It's fine," I tell him, cocooned in the consideration of my choice: subdue him and the connection that burns between us like a live wire, or leave, and sever it completely.

He only nods, asks me if I want to leave the apartment for the evening or stay in.

"I can order dinner," he offers, but I shake my head.

"We can keep our plans."

He pauses. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright," he says slowly. "How does 230 Fifth sound?"

I pause, remembering the noise of the club he's taken me to before, and nod. Double back, square on and back down into a place where I can claim him, where I can remember how to be myself again.

**+.+.+.+**

I am fourteen, dying to be touched, and the words of Cora Anderson roll off my tongue, sugar and vinegar in the truth of them.

"'...Whatever man may say about 'the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,' they know that nothing rules men but their desires and there is no ruler in this world but sex.'"

I am in the anteroom of my father's office, and the young man sitting on the couch across from me, one of Charles Swan's interns, looks nervous. "Should you be reading that?" he asks uncertainly.

I want to tell him that he must speak with more confidence, if he wants to continue wearing one of my father's American flag lapel pins, but I do not.

"It's a quote," I explain slowly. "And it's true."

He looks away first, swallowing quickly. "It seems a little... adult."

"We all have to grow up sometime," I inform him with a smile.

He does not speak to me again.

**+.+.+.+**

In the mirror stands a woman, naked but for a few scraps of black lace, small and pale and cold, white-lipped and dark-eyed and trembling with purpose and fear. In her left hand, its fingers clenched tightly around their prize, is a Ferragamo necktie.

Over and over, her colorless mouth forms the same sentence:

Subdue, or sever.

"Bella, are you almost ready?"

I can find my freedom in subduing him, showing him his place and leaving him, leaving those suffocating ties that no one sees. Free of Edward and his roaming hands, his fingers that dig too deep, push too far, making me bruise and bleed. Free of disappointing. Free of the past, its dagger-like memories showing me my own warped features in shards of reflection.

A tearing of something, a rip inside at the thought of leaving him, and I am not crazy, or I am, but either way I am determined to fly, unfettered, away from the twisting in my chest when I think of the taste of Edward's skin, of the pulse under his jaw or the wide, free expanse of the skin across his shoulders. I flush, arousal and anger that he is more than I've made him in my mind. He wages subtle wars with his words, fingers caressing me into a docile haze until I am submitting to his mouth and his mind and I no longer recognize myself.

A fault line of something like fear runs through me as I imagine him closer, and closer and inside me until I am exposed, until everything in me is laid out for his perusal and subsequent rejection.

I will not be weak. I will not be exposed. I am able to leave him first.

"Bella?" he calls again, and he is right by the door now. "Did you hear me?"

A breath, and another breath.

"I heard you," I reply evenly. "I'm ready."

**+.+.+.+**

"Evening," Billy cheerfully calls to us as Edward and I exit the lobby.

"I have a car waiting," Edward informs him absently, his tone dripping with the nonchalant command of la noblesse d'ancien régime.

Billy nods at him, nonplussed. "Very good, sir. And, you," he says to me with a charming wink. "It's been a few days. I hope you've got a good one."

I can feel Edward's curious gaze on me. "'We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.'"

Billy frowns, exasperated. "Somebody French, I'll bet," he huffs.

"Is that André Berthiaume?" Edward asks.

"Yeah, who he said," Billy quips.

"It is," I reply, frowning up at Edward. "How do you know that?"

He shrugs, but before he looks away there is something in his face that I do not like.

"Well, I'll give you something a little closer to home," Billy declares, blithely ignoring Edward's sudden reticence. "'Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."

My mind flashes through a thousand _bon mots_ from philosophers, authors and playwrights, but nothing fits. "I don't know that one," I admit.

"Dr. Seuss," Edward mutters.

Billy smiles. "Very good, sir. I see you and Ms. Swan are well-matched."

"I suppose so," Edward replies tightly, nodding toward the black sedan that pulls to the curb in front of us. "Here we are."

Later, I will remember both Billy's indiscreet use of my last name, and Edward's silence at the sound of it.

**+.+.+.+**

The 230 Fifth Club is as vibrant and as loud as it was the first time he brought me here, and the women still look at the man by my side with a mixture of hunger and anticipation.

And then their eyes find me, and they quickly look away.

He guides us through the crowd with a hand on my back, and we arrive at the same private booth as last time, only instead of the coterie of before, now there is only Jasper Whitlock. Older and slender, sun-tanned with unruly blond curls and eyes with a whiskey glaze, he grins as he sees us approaching.

"Cullen!" he exclaims. "What the hell?"

"Jasper," Edward greets coolly. "You've met Bella."

"Yeah, I remember," he slurs, staring at me appreciatively. "Done with her yet?"

"No," Edward replies stiffly, leveling a meaningful glance at the tumbler in front of Jasper. "Although I believe you may be done with that."

"You sound like your sister. Alice has been waiting for you, by the way," Jasper continues, ignoring him. "Stick up her ass. As usual."

"Who is she with?"

"Who do you think?" Jasper drawls. "Story of your life."

"I'll be right back," he says, and frowning, I sit and watch his back retreat into the crowd.

**+.+.+.+**

I am nineteen and drunk. So, so drunk.

Tyler's handprints are old news, phantom shadows, mere memories on my skin, and I want them off, I want them gone.

"Hey, pretty lady," someone says, I can just barely hear his words over the din of the club. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"A drink?" I yell over the music, and he nods.

Clean features, I think. He has clean features and nice teeth and he's one of those Dartmouth boys, the ones with lots of money and nothing to do with it but buy drinks for pussy.

But he won't buy me.

My fingers curl around the lapels of his jacket and I pull him down, down, down until my lips are against his ear.

"No more drinks," I tell him. "But if you're in the mood to do me a favor, I can think of a better use of your time."

He leans back and smiles wolfishly, every pretense of chivalry washed away in a whisper. "Where?" he asks.

There is no challenge in it and the sport is easy, but every victory counts, and I tell myself this as he fucks me against a wall, screaming as I scratch, scoring his skin with my presence.

**+.+.+.+**

Jasper rambles on drunkenly, yelling over the music as I nod and smile and ignore him, my eyes constantly, conspicuously scanning the room for Edward. I've sought him like this once before, my lips on the petal-white skin of Victoria's wrist, confident in my power over him, in the light in his eyes as he thought he was chasing me.

I cling to the memory, wrap my own power around me like a tattered cloak and pray he cannot see the holes. This place, the music and movement and the slick sensuality of its inhabitants - it swirls around me, a reminder of how I once stood above it all.

I've led him before, I can do it again.

Several minutes later, beyond clusters of dancers and drinkers, I finally spot him, his face oddly blank as he makes his way toward me.

I am a statue where I sit, my pulse sounding off like a countdown.

**+.+.+.+**

"I hear you," Edward calls in a sing-song tone.

A breeze rustles through the hedges of the maze, and the crashing leaves whisper as one:

Run.

**+.+.+.+**

Control, I tell myself. Conquer him. Leave, or be left.

Apprehension curls itself around my spine, mating with the sense of the inevitable, of fate and freedom. The desire to let what will come, come, so that I may have the chance to best it.

Edward approaches me with deliberate steps, calm and measured and carrying him closer. His eyes meet mine with purpose and something else, something dark.

He is angry, but he has been angry before. I am not afraid of him.

"May we speak privately?" he asks coolly, and I nod, my fingers bidding farewell to the silk of the pilfered necktie in the pocket of my dress as I stand.

His fingers wrap around my arm, tight enough to shackle me, and the tang of bitter apprehension burns my tongue.

**+.+.+.+**

I am winded, wide-eyed and weary and covered in filth when my father finds me and, chastising, demands to know where I've been. Concern permeates his features - I am, after all, the shining jewel of the Kingmaker's own crown.

I am swiftly carried up the terrace steps and into the house, but not fast enough to miss the disheveled figure of a young woman sheepishly emerging from the maze. Behind her, exuding smugness and ease, Cullen follows.

For the briefest of seconds, our eyes meet, and I shudder at the world of arrogance and power within his gaze.

**+.+.+.+**

A world of arrogance and power.

Edward drips with it now, the docile and demanding lover tucked neatly away behind the tailored lines of his suit as he pulls me through a door marked 'restricted' and into a hallway of harsh fluorescent light, its walls lined with spare tables and chairs. He releases my arm, and I feel the rush of blood filling in the places where he held me so tightly. The only sound is his harsh breathing and the dulled bass from the other side of the door.

The hallway is cold, white and barren.

I watch Edward wordlessly as he pulls a thick manila envelope from beneath the crook of his elbow. His face is unreadable. Tabula Rasa, I think. Blank slate.

It is silent, but not - the quiet of the hallway is a weak buffer against the thudding bass of the music on the other side of the wall. It presses against my skin, shakes and shivers around my bones like a reckoning.

_"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly_...

Innocent words - a child's nursery rhyme. And yet, therein lies my dilemma:

I am your danger and your play, I told him once, smiled as he looked back with glass-green eyes and took a step and a step and another into my world, into this clumsy web I cannot stop weaving.

And now, foolish girl that I have become, I find myself unsure of who is the spider, and who is the fly.

"What is it?" I ask flatly, inevitability settling itself in a cold fog around my bones.

His mouth is pressed into a sharp, grim line, but his gaze is full of stones and blades and battle, and is this the man who so readily let me climb him, claim him?

I am still, watchful and wary, waiting for his words.

**+.+.+.+**

Tyler is a fool, caught in the throes of both my cunt and his own religion. His face twists with guilt and wanting as I tie his hands behind him with one of my stockings.

And then twists with something darker as I take him into me.

"Is this a sin?" he breathes against my naked shoulder, but his hips continue to crash into mine with abandon, the buckle of his belt knocking loudly against his desk. My hands play roughly along the wide expanse of his lean chest, my fingers dancing along his torso with delight as I see him struggle lightly against his ties. "Is this...? This is a sin."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," I retort, clenching around him. He jerks against me but I'm not done, I'm not finished with him and I tell him so as I push him off, pull him down and mount him on the floor, ignoring his discomfort as he tries to shift his hands underneath him.

"This is a sin?" I ask, watching as his eyes roll back while I ride him. "Tell me why."

"Ah... god-"

"God?" I ask mockingly. "God told you this was wrong?"

He grimaces, groans as I come down, and I've seen the light in his eyes before. I've seen it in the eyes of a priest with his pants down. I've seen it in the eyes of my father - the only god I've ever known - as his universe sustains itself on his perpetually incorruptible image, even as he fucks his best friend's wife.

"If this is a sin, then I don't care. I love it. Does that mean I'm going to hell, Tyler?"

"Bella," he gasps.

"Tell me. Tell me now."

"I can't-"

"Tell me," I demand harshly, cruelly digging my nails into the quivering muscle of his thigh.

"Yes!" he cries, thrusting up to meet me, and maybe it's a cry of pleasure, or the answer to my question, but I see him now as he sees himself - the bright young boy, the pride of his father, the hope of his family's future as he walks into a future that allows him both sex and sainthood - a world of arrogance and power and _men_-

"Say it," I hiss, snaking my hand down to where his trousers are bunched around his knees, my fingers searching and finding and yanking until I have what I want.

He could have it all - everything I'll never be - and he _wastes _it so carelessly, relinquishing his power, letting me tie him up and push him down like it's nothing at all-

Nothing at all.

I lean over him, shuddering with delight as my nipples brush against his chest, my shaking hands working quickly, my mind racing with ecstasy and purpose.

"I don't want to say it," he moans, eyes closed...

...and then open - wide, wide open as I pull the belt around his neck and tighten...

"Bella!" he gasps.

And gasps.

He bucks against me, red-faced, twisting and jerking like a marionette, but I stay on, pressing down and feeling his release as I cry out my own, coming around him as his eyes water.

I release him moments later and move off of him, still shaking with adrenaline and exhilaration as he gasps, rolls over, hacking and coughing and fighting against the knot of my stocking.

I am glowing.

His life - his perfect, charmed life - was in my control, briefly but completely. Everything he had, mine to take away.

"Good boy," I say breathlessly, and I cannot help the grin on my face as I free his hands.

He rolls over, but there is none of his usual afterglow, no guilt-ridden smile or needy, clinging arms pulling me to him, even as I push him away.

Instead, he is staring. Horrified. Angry.

Gone is the docile boy who begged.

"Get out," he wheezes.

"Excuse me?"

"You tried to kill- I'm- my father was right-"

"You can't be serious," I scoff indignantly.

"Get OUT," he rasps. Over and over.

Get out get out get out get out

Burning with humiliation and anger, I gather my things, cover myself and leave. He'll come to his senses soon, I tell myself, but there is no timbre of truth in the thought.

**+.+.+.+**

Wordlessly, he regards me long enough for my fingers to rebel against my edict of calm, the digits tapping against my thigh in a frenetic tattoo and I curse them and command: still, _still_, be still.

"Alice came to see me today," Edward finally says, an undercurrent of coldness in his tone as he calmly pulls something from the envelope in his hands. "It seems there's been some concern within my family regarding the company I keep."

A flash - a memory of a summer evening and a party below, the echo of pretty, little Alice taunting me from above:

_I'm going to tell, I'm going to tell…_

His business meeting this morning. Alice. _Alice_.

"You said you had a work meeting."

"I believe I said that I had a meeting in my office," he replies impassively. "Although the location is a bit beside the point."

"Then what is?" I demand impatiently.

He holds my gaze for a moment, and I cannot read his face. "How long have we known each other, Isabella?"

I can answer him in years or days or meetings or touches, but instead I say nothing, my fingers twitching, trembling before I ball them into a tight fist at my side.

"Alice gave this to me a few moments ago." He offers me the paper in his hand and I unclench my fist and take it, glancing down. "A few things to substantiate the concerns she shared with me this morning."

It is an 8x10 photo of a brick wall and black door that I recognize, a small woman in a white coat and dark sunglasses walking away from the building and toward a waiting car. The dark brown of the bricks create a sharp contrast to the pristine white of my favorite wool coat.

_And the stone word fell_, Akhmatova breathes against my memory, _On my still-living breast._

"What is this?" I ask, wincing at my words, their intended venom shrouded in a pitiful whisper, because I know what it is, and I know what Alice has done.

He reaches into the envelope again, this time producing a small stack of papers. "Fascinating reading," he remarks flatly. "Although I confess I was only able to skim over most of it."

I stare down at the pages he shows me and it takes only a little effort to imagine the words scrawled upon the bright yellow of Dr. Cope's ever-present legal pad.

"How?" I demand, hating the desperation in my voice.

He hears it, his lips twitching into a cold smirk. "Riley is very thorough."

A tremor crawls, insouciant, down my spine.

"Tell me this - is it standard practice for your therapist to send your session notes to Charles Swan?"

Eyes wide, lips pressed tight and I can feel my nostrils flare as I breathe, and breathe, and grasp at something, anything that will stop him or stall him or make him pliant once more.

"Your father," he adds, as if to remind me. "What is it they call him? The Kingpin?"

"Kingmaker," I croak.

"Of course, thank you. Although I probably should be more diligent in remembering the pompous political nicknames of men who've cuckolded my father."

"My father-"

"I don't care about your father," he snaps. "He can fuck every blueblood in Washington for all I care. Last I heard, he was about halfway there."

"That's not true," I seethe, but he only chuckles grimly.

"Isabella, don't tell me you're just another lonely girl with daddy issues," he chides condescendingly. "Not when you've been so good at avoiding cliches. Of course," he continues, pulling something from his coat's inner pocket, "there's not much mention of him in here."

The faded brown leather binding of my moleskin screams at me from Edward's hands.

He is silent, regarding me with grim satisfaction.

Darkness stirs inside, rising once again to taunt me. Foolish girl, it hisses mockingly, and I flinch even as I wish to sink into its shadows, and light, light - there is too much light, I am no longer the only cold one as he stands before me, a statue, the heat of him leaked away by the arctic white of the fluorescent light, my secret resting prettily in the granite palm of his hand.

_I want to lose a battle to him and win a war against him_.

The pages of writing, of sketches and the delicious blur of the lines between desperate memories and my darkest dreams, fantasies of freedom and fucking and marking him as my own.

The beast in my brain roars indignantly from between the leather binding.

"Those are private," I whisper weakly.

But he ignores me.

"I'll ask again," he says slowly. "How long have we known each other, Isabella?" He scowls when I do not answer, eyes snapping with ire. "You owe me some answers," he growls. "Why me?"

The gall, the ghoul of him- I am exposed, flayed open and frozen, my nerves exposed as he pokes and prods and smiles that maddeningly calm smirk, every line of him radiating umbrage and power.

I have nothing, I have lost him, can only watch as he lords this new found power over me, stand frozen as he steals control and he knows, he _knows_ now, knows everything, you stupid, stupid girl.

I believed him to be a shadow of himself, wanted to vanquish what he once was, wanted to feel the triumph of seducing the Lothario of my youth, subduing the Man in the Maze. I watched, exhilarated and wary, planning and luring and catching and holding him, a spoiled child trapping a small reptile in the clasp of her hands.

But how naive to assume, to think that any creature could forever remain so small, so docile. How foolish to ignore him as he stretched, strengthened, wound himself around me until he was no longer a harmless pet. I've trapped a small serpent, a memory reborn, an Everest and a goal. A small creature caught in the clutch of a little girl's fingers, only to discover my hands wrapped around the tip of a dragon's tail.

Now, I stare at him, a dragon made formidable by his own cold anger, by my own stupidity. His eyes flash, flinty with the realization that he has cornered me and I feel fear and want and rage collude, collide inside my chest. I am beyond my depth, he is beyond my reach, and I am a child once more in the face of his fury.

He watches me, smiles grimly when I do not answer, glancing down at the book in his hand. "And to think- all this time, I was worried you thought of me as some anonymous fuck."

Something in my expression provokes him. "Goddamn it," he snarls, snapping the book shut. "Do you have any idea- I _wanted_ you. I watched you sleep and just... _fuck_, I wanted to crawl inside your head, read your mind."

You've come close enough, I think, my eyes darting to the book in his hands.

He follows my gaze.

I am silent, willing him to see memories in my mind's eye, the beauty and the terror of him as he rutted like an animal against a silly, silly girl with no name. I watched him years ago, a brat prince with the power and will to make the world go his way - the closest thing to a god since the Kingmaker himself.

He sets the book down and moves closer, elegant, tapered fingers closing around my upper arm and squeezing and I have followed the thread, hunted my prey and let the fisherman borrow my selkie skin... and it has led me to him, to this moment, to a man and a woman in an empty hallway with his questions echoing and his indignation glowing, growing, filling the small space with the red haze, the heat of him.

"Answer the question," he demands, as I stare at the jumping pulse beneath his jaw. "Why me?"

The shadow inside of me wants to taste his heartbeat, to bite him and claim him and keep him, but a fist closes around my lungs and there is a dead weight in my chest. We're the same, he told me once, the thrusting weight of him heavy behind me as he gripped my wrist, folded me over his bed and fucked me, fucked me _back_.

Now he wants an answer.

And I am not a liar.

Follow the thread, follow it through...

"I always wanted you," I confess, my voice low and cold and hollow; it only seems to agitate him further.

He glowers down at me. "You were a childwhen we met." His fingers squeeze around me tighter. "You watched me fuck some girl in the garden."

I nod.

"You wrote about it. About me. You drew me fucking other women."

"Yes," I croak.

"You wrote about me often."

"I thought of you often," I answer.

"You thought of me," he scoffs, but then he is closer, his breath on my face and the hum of his voice can be felt in my chest. "When? When did you think of me?"

I pause, remembering the slow passage of adolescence, the newfound flush of my first arousal, the rhythm of my fingers, the whisper of my gasping and the empty air above me. And later, the grunting of the men beneath me, their sweat and their stink and their cries and their cum. "Always," I whisper.

"Are the stories real?"

"What stories?"

"Tyler, Jacob. The men in your journal- are they real?"

Slowly, I nod.

"So this is- what? This is something you do for _fun_?"

"It's who I am," I breathe.

Edward releases my arm, stepping back and warily, my eyes follow his every movement, watching. He regards me shrewdly, sharp eyes fixed upon my face. "No last name, no phone number. I would wait all day, wondering if I would see you, if you would show up... I talked about you to people, called you my little stray. My prim, pretty little stray that never cared to sheathe her claws. I wanted you to keep coming back, and I let you push me, and hit me, and keep me in the dark. You were the only one I didn't stop wanting.

"Imagine my surprise when Alice told me she had information - more than I'd ever thought I'd have - on my stray, on the mysterious Isabella. And I only kept remembering one thing, even as I saw the photos and the drawings and read _that_." He meets my gaze, even, hard and sharp. "You told me I would love you."

My eyes widen, watching as his gaze falters at his own words.

A small thing, but I straighten at the sight - it is an opening, a weakness, a chink in his armor and perhaps, perhaps there is hope if the dragon bares his throat, vulnerable once more.

My mind echoes my arrogant words as I rode him, conquered him amidst the gaiety of the Liberty Ball. "Do you?" I ask evenly.

Love - that great equalizer. He could be weak before me once more.

He says nothing, his mouth flattening into a grim line.

My arm still stings from the feel of his fingers but everything he's said, his anger and his knowledge and his control...

All of it means nothing if he loves me, the poor fool.

Give me your secret, Delilah cooed seductively, with shears behind her back.

But this is no Samson with a secret - he's taken all of mine, devoured them with unsanctioned eyes.

The minutes spent paralyzed before him melt away as I meet his gaze.

Silent, he stares back.

I see you, he told me once, and wanted me still. But now he sees it all.

And frozen as ever, I wait for him to look away.

**+.+.++.+.+.+**


	20. Gravel & Rust

_arrêt à bon temps_ - a counter-offensive action which hits the opponent before he initiates his final action.

_balestra _- a footwork preparation, consisting of a jump forwards. It is most often, but not always, immediately followed by a lunge. It is faster than a step forward, which helps change the rhythm and timing of moves.

_parry _- a simple defensive action designed to deflect an attack, performed with the forte of the blade.

_passata-soto _- an evasive action which is initiated by dropping a hand to the floor and lowering the body under the opponent's oncoming blade.

_redoublement _- an indirect renewal of an attack that missed, was short, or was parried.

_riposte _- an attack with right-of-way following a valid parry

_salute _- a blade action indicating respect or good sportsmanship

_touché _- French word for "touched"; is used to acknowledge a hit

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.

The minutes prick their ears and run about,

Then one by one subside again and pass

Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear.

Solitude walks one heavy step more near.

[Harold Munro, "Solitude"]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

There is a shadow that has stretched across my years, followed and formed me. It has given me shade and fear and solitude and above all, above all, the knowledge that power belongs to the few who dare to claim it.

It looms over me even now, casting everything in greys and blacks and blues, its shape made by the man in front of me: my father, the Kingmaker.

He's created my world, constructed the only context in which I have ever existed. As sure as a character in any fairytale, he has authored me, this mystery of a man who has shown me the balance of omnipresence and absence – the only god with whom I have ever reckoned.

Fingers clenched around a scrap of silk, I rest my forehead against the coolness of the airplane window, closing my eyes to the sight of Manhattan disappearing beneath me as I fly back to the only home I have ever had.

**+.+.+.+**

The sonorous bass of the club's dance music thuds through the wall like a pulse as I wait for Edward to speak. The poor fool, he allows his emotions to flash across his eyes like a prism: annoyance and outrage - I am not the only one brought low tonight by my secrets.

My question lingers in the air between us, but his only answer is found in the twitch of his mouth, the flash in his gaze and the flex of his jaw. There is want, it's painted in light and scarlet hues across the bones of his face, and I take his anger and his desire and his humiliation and read behind them, watch the feelings stretch into lines and words before me because I know, I _know_.

"You do love me," I brashly declare, fascinated by feel of wielding the upper hand once more.

His face hardens and he says nothing; I am transfixed by the world lying within the tumult of his gaze: a white sky unblemished, lashes like branches, stark and dark and cutting across an atmosphere weighted by winter, their lines twisting ever upward, stabbing against the light like a supplicant's outstretched fingers. Or perhaps they are hands caressing, sweeping against the silk of a lover's cheek.

Or of a Ferragamo necktie.

Moments descend, heavy and quiet around us like a snowfall. He is still, save for a quick, quiet breath; the slight quiver of an eyelid. "I'm right, aren't I?" I demand, softening my tone, but it is the feigned limp of a hungry beast, luring its prey down from the vigilance of the hunted.

His face is smooth now, free of anything but calculated ennui. He assesses me calmly, and he is not deceived. "That would be very foolish of me," he rejoins, and his voice is gravel and rust but there is a blink, a wince, a tightening of his expression, and I smile.

Here is his _passata-soto_ and his parry, his blade and his armor. In his defense he has shown me a new weapon; the darkness inside of me eyes the power of another pain.

I can see in his eyes, against the pristine landscape, an inky tendril of something...

...of awareness...

...of awakening...

A salute.

And I am myself again.

**+.+.+.+**

A black Towncar quietly whisks me down Washington's tree-lined streets, past embassies and museums and stately rowhouses lining the way. My mind wanders, dallying in shadows of the past and I think I can remember every single thing that's ever happened, the metallic tang of Jacob Black's wedding ring as I pull it from his finger with my teeth, the sting of my palms with every lovely, brutal contact with Tyler's reddening skin.

There are other memories too, but an image of Edward's head on my pillow makes my stomach clench and I close my eyes against it, my fingers working against his tie like a rosary.

"You're very quiet," Paul Strickland observes politely as our car carries us closer to Georgetown. "Tired?"

I nod slowly, my mind reaching desperately back into a time when I was not so drained, so defeated. A time when I was the myth of a huntress inhabiting this mousy, mild frame.

"Almost there," he remarks, and I ready myself to re-enter the past.

**+.+.+.+**

My lips turn up into the smile of the Sphinx. Edward's eyes narrow as he notices.

_Redoublement._

"I could ask why you seem so unconcerned, but it seems you've done this before: stalking men as a hobby, violating their privacy and their personal boundaries just so you can get off on fucking them over once they get too close."

"You seem to have me all figured out," I retort.

"I think so."

"Hm. And what else do you think?"

His gaze is unwavering. "I think you're dangerous."

"I wouldn't be alarmed if I were you," I reply lightly. "I never cause permanent damage."

He levels a withering glare at me. "How generous of you."

I acknowledge his acerbic praise with a slight nod, fighting the desire to flinch away when he takes a step closer. "I think so."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" he asks in a low voice. "Is that what the others did when you were finished with them?"

_Riposte_.

The others.

For a moment, the expressions of my other men flash across my mind's eye, and I frown. Tyler's revelatory fear; Jacob's disgust.

"They understood," I answer.

"Did they? Or were they too scared of laying a hand on Charles Swan's brat to do anything when you attacked them? Interesting, isn't it, that such a small woman could subdue two large men."

"My past is none of your concern-"

"I'd drop the Daddy's Little Princess tone if I were you," he replies acidly. "Save it for someone who shits himself at the sound of your father's name."

"He could bury you."

Edward laughs. "I'm sure he could try."

"My father-"

"Your father is a _joke_," he spits acidly. "Especially if he thinks he can maintain his shiny, red-state, God-fearing image while fucking half of his friends' wives."

"You don't know anything about us-"

He sneers. "Don't I? Well, here's a psychoanalysis that bitch on your father's payroll couldn't give you: you think your daddy's the king of the world because he's the only man you can't fuck out of your system."

A world of arrogance and power. Edward does not flinch away from my glare as I stare up at him, seething at his impudent dismissal of the man whose shadow looms over my every step.

"My father has more influence than-"

"So I've heard. And yet, look around you," he gestures to the hallway behind me. It is empty. He leans ever closer, anger rolling off of him in waves.

"Your father isn't here, Isabella."

I am silent, unblinking as his hand moves, sweeping up my arm, across my shoulder and stopping as he rests his palm between my collarbones, his fingers flexing lightly against the base of my throat.

"I don't give a fuck about your family," he breathes harshly, steely eyes boring into me as his fingers lightly flex against my skin. "This is between you and me."

_Prise de fer, croisè_

He leans in closer, opening his mouth to speak and I stiffen, bracing myself as his gaze burns through me, probing along the wall of my skull with poison and anger and pain.

"And I am not afraid of you."

**+.+.+.+**

'_He who holds the money holds the power, he who holds the power makes the rules, he who makes the rules holds the money._'

These words once stared at me from their gold-plated place on my father's office wall as I sat, seething as he called Mr. Crowley. No, my father assured him, I was not a danger and yes, I would stay away from Tyler for good.

Later, I wrote and wrote and wrote, teeth drawing blood from my lower lip raw as my ink-bound anger howled lines across the page as I recalled my indignation reflected in the gleaming metal face of my father's favorite plaque.

I wonder if it's still there as I follow Paul down the corridor of my father's home-office suite. The Bunker, his staff always called it.

An apt description, I think, as the walls of my childhood loom over me, whispering that I am home, I am home at last. Unbidden, more memories from years past superimpose themselves over my senses; tricks of light and fatigue show a shadow of Ilse carrying me to bed after another late dinner party of my parents', reveal the faint echo of my mother's bitter laughter as she sways drunkenly to her music and tells her young daughter that men only want one thing, and that Charles Swan is never coming back.

All around me are the sounds of my father's work: the ringing of phones, the quiet conversation of his staff, and the low volume of cable news shows droning endlessly from within a media room. Tailored suits with crisp collars and lapels with flag pins move around me, all of them worn by bright young interns and weathered political battle-axes, all of them rallying around my father's near-miraculous ability to make any candidate respectable, electable.

_The Midas Touch: Politics and the Power of Charles Swan_, one framed Newsweek headline reads. Beneath it is a photo of my father and Jacob Black, their hands clasped in a jovial handshake as ticker tape fills the air around them.

There are dozens of other articles and photos just like it, all of them framed, all of them lining the walls that lead to the Kingmaker's inner sanctum.

Paul pauses before the study door, turning toward me with a solemn expression.

"He knows you're here," he informs me. "And he's expected to meet with the attorneys at noon, so you have an hour."

I nod, impressed with the rigors of my father's schedule even now, when he has a wife to bury.

For a moment, Paul appraises me with something like pity, his eyes searching my own before he blinks, straightens, and turns to open the door.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'm not afraid of you, either," I reply.

Too close, too close, so close. Edward's warmth bleeds through his coat, singes the exposed nerve endings along my skin. His features are grave and I am so, so still, my fingers clenching around the fabric in my is silent, staring down at the place where his hand rests on me. "You think I don't know you," he murmurs after a moment.

I bristle against him. "You don't."

I speak boldly, but he's seen the notes, he's seen my handwriting and my fears and fantasies. I must make him forget his upper hand, but his fingers are heavy on my neck and in spite of myself, I swallow nervously.

He sees.

And it is his turn to smile.

**+.+.+.+**

The door opens, and there is music, its melancholy strains painting my father's Gilded Age-themed office in dark greys and blues and blacks.

_Cet air qui m'obsède jour et nuit..._

"I adore Piaf," a memory of my mother slurs.

I blink her voice away, closing the heavy walnut door to my father's study as I focus on my breathing, the in and out and all over again.

My pulse thunders in my throat, and I push away the memory of the last man who touched it, his face and the feel of his skin, uninvited, filling the hollows of me. My fingers twitch against my side, reveling in the phantom feel of him, anxious for more of his warmth in the chill of the Kingmaker's chambers.

A world of arrogance and power...

That power is understated now, muted by the bent stature of my father in his armchair by the fireplace. His posture is hunched and tired, fatigue painting him in the harsh lines of age and stress. It plays a tableau across his profile as the sounds of my mother's music surround him.

_Padam... padam... padam..._

_Il me fait le coup du souviens-toi..._

He does not see me, his head bowed almost to his chest in quiet contemplation or slumber, and I clear my throat.

My father looks at me then, head turning slowly to show me the haggard creases of his face, the red of his eyes and the ashen color of his skin.

"Isabella," he greets quietly.

"Hello," I reply, as hushed as he.

"I trust your flight home was well. Please, have a seat."

I nod and obey, recalling the daze of the flight, the chill of the windowpane. He stares thoughtfully into the fire, imperturbable in spite of my silence.

"It was fast," he says after a moment, and I frown. "Your mother," he clarifies, seeing my confusion. "The accident... the doctors assured us that she wasn't in any pain."

"How-"

"Black ice," he answers flatly. "Her car skidded off the road."

I am still, my thoughts forming and fleeing before I can hold onto them, ephemeral wisps of where, and how, and why nothing feels as different as it should.

"Paul was instructed not to say anything."

Numbly, I nod.

We do not speak for several moments, sitting frozen amidst the strains of Piaf's voice and the crackle of flames in the fireplace.

"You look tired, Isabella," he says finally.

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"If you think that will be a problem again tonight, please have one of the staff contact Dr. Banner so he can prescribe you something. I need you to be rested for tomorrow."

I blink, confused. "Why?"

"You'll assume your mother's role as hostess for our guests," he answers smoothly.

"Guests?"

"Nothing elaborate," he explains, seeing my frown. "A handful of acquaintances who'd like to privately honor her memory."

I remember my mother's afternoon teas and evening fundraisers, her rotary club breakfasts and her church socials. I cannot recall any faces that would now be stricken with tears on her behalf.

"Paul will brief you on who is expected to attend," he continues quietly. He's very trustworthy. Sharp. Loyal. Educated."

I open my mouth to respond, but he interrupts.

"You could do worse."

Paul Strickland.

I take a moment to imagine this union, picturing my father's sharp, loyal, educated aide panting and thrusting above me, below me, behind me. I wonder if I could ruin him.

_Am I supposed to share you?_ the memory of Edward asks, and I am transported back to that night, to the feeling of his hips driving up into me as his fingers dig possessively into my skin.

I frown, blinking away the memory. "I'm not interested."

"You two would do well together - he has ambition, drive, knowledge. You might learn something from him. Also, he's single." His eyes bore into me, their flatness tempered by a shrewd gleam. "As are you."

I stare at him, willing an impassive expression to cloak my features.

"I never said I wasn't," I reply evenly.

"Of course not," he sighs. "But I am curious about something: Isabella, who is Edward Cullen?"

**+.+.+.+**

My pulse pounds in my chest, presses against Edward's palm like an eager, pathetic pet with every viscous beat as he silently regards me with a smirk.

"You say you're not afraid of me," he says after a few long moments. "I think you're lying."

"I'm not a liar."

He huffs a disbelieving laugh. "Our entire relationship is a lie."

"I never lied to you."

"Then why the secrets?"

"Because they're none of your business."

"What's none of my business? The fact that the woman I'm seeing has known about me for almost fifteen years? The fact that our families have history? The fact that you followed me for weeks before we even met?"

The words roll off of his tongue so easy, so light. I fight a cringe at his casual references to the days, those cold days that echoed with the sound of solitary footsteps as I chased a phantom, a dream of the past.

Subdue, or sever. Put a slouch in that proud, private school posture.

Teach him a lesson and leave.

"What makes you angrier, Edward?" I taunt. "That I seduced you so easily, or that your little sister was the one to tell you that I'm not just another society slut hanging on your every word."

His jaw tightens. "My sister didn't tell me that," he growls. "She told me that the woman I was spending all my time with is a deeply disturbed individual who's been fixated on me since her childhood."

_Touché._

His tone and his words stab, sting and slice and I'm bleeding, but I'll be damned if I show him the fire he goads with his every breath.

"Even better," I retort. "You let yourself get fooled and fucked by a lunatic."

"This is still a game to you," he says with a glimmer of incredulity. "Even now."

"Am I winning?"

His face darkens with something I do not think I can mock. "You're the only one playing."

**+.+.+.+**

"Let me rephrase," my father reiterates blandly when I do not answer. "Who is Edward Cullen to _you_?"

I gather my thoughts, my silence echoing against the walls, fighting the words that bubble at the base of my throat: he is my prey and my prayer and my captive, my spoils of war, my conquered city and my friendly fire. He is the thief of my skin, my monster in the maze.

He is my sun god, grounded.

"You understand why I'm asking, of course."

"Of course," I echo blankly.

"Your past... indiscretions make it difficult for me to give you the benefit of the doubt. Especially when these liaisons compromise my work. So while you ponder the question, allow me to enlighten you as to who Edward Cullen is to _me_. He's the son of the man who happens to be the biggest real estate developer in the country. He's the son of the man who, last year, made more than forty million dollars in campaign contributions to several of my clients. He's the son of the man who allows my clients to fund successful re-election campaigns, which in turn allows them to continue to work with me in keeping this nation's political dialogue moving in the right direction." He pauses, pinning me to the back of my chair with his eyes. "There are only so many times I will be able to mend fences with these people, Isabella."

He sighs heavily, annoyance deepening his frown. "And so I'll ask again: who is Edward Cullen to you?"

A flash, two images juxtaposed in my mind: Edward's moonlit silhouette in a garden maze; his face transforming in ecstasy as he thrusts upward, arching back into my pillows and coming apart underneath me.

A phantom touch, the memory of the long line of his body as it pressed against me; the heat of his hand as it cupped my breast, caressed my jaw, clenched into a fist as I slapped him.

A ghost of glass-green eyes meeting my own in the mirror, seeing and staring and not looking away.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I say quietly, and the words echo bleakly across my mind, winds in a wasteland.

My father's mouth flattens into a grim line. He's never liked non-answers. "You're not to see him again."

**+.+.+.+**

I stare at Edward's pale, patrician features, the air chilling past my paper skin, wrapping itself around my bones like a sad song but still, I can shake him, shake off the dust of this place from my feet.

"Why are you still here, then?" I demand.

The pads of his fingers rest on my pulse as I watch his reactions play across his face in infinitesimal flashes of annoyance, frustration, disgust, anger.

"Because some things have changed," he finally answers, his voice low and rough. "And some things haven't."

Want. Desperation and lust and maybe-heartbreak.

The memory of my own words, whispered barbs thrown at him as he was splayed, spent beneath me. _I'll be yours_, I'd breathed into his skin, and he'd hissed with pleasure.

You are not free, my mother's voice taunts, a quiet slither of sound above my heartbeat and Edward's harsh breathing. I will not be her, I cannot.

Watch me, I declare to the ghoulish ghost of Renee Higginbotham Swan. Watch me be free.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I tell him.

_Arrêt à bon temps._

He stares, says nothing, but his fingers tighten further around my neck.

"No," he says flatly, a refutation.

"You can't keep me."

He frowns. "I never wanted someone to _keep_," he replies, his voice dripping with disgust.

"Didn't you?"

"No!"

"Then let me go."

His laugh is a short, angry burst of sound and breath on my face. "That's not how this works."

I want to laugh, to show him I am not afraid. I want him to watch me spurn another pair of shackles. "Let me go. I'm leaving."

"Stop saying that," he snaps. "You don't get to- you don't get to turn everything upside down and just walk away-"

"I go where I want to be," I retort meanly. "I don't want to be here anymore."

He straightens, further towering over me. "You're rather bold for a woman at the mercy of someone twice her size."

"I don't believe you'd actually harm me."

He glowers down at me. "Believe that I want to," he grinds out. "Believe that."

His lips are only a few breaths away, white with anger. He is controlling himself but barely, and I am rattling him. The dragon I hold by the tail may breathe fire at any moment.

_Balestra._

My heartbeat is the fever pitch of a bass drum, my head light and sharp and alert. Never have I been cornered so. Never have I felt more exhilarated.

I can breathe flames of my own.

"You want to hurt me?"

He is silent, but his gaze is a gunshot.

"Is that all you want to do?" I ask in a low voice, watching as his tongue darts out just slightly, just so as he tastes my words.

Slowly, I move my hand between our bodies, to where his erection is almost pressed against my stomach. His eyes hold my own.

"Why wouldn't you want to keep me?" I ask with a smirk. "All I have to do is look at you to make your cock hard."

I grab him and he groans.

"One for the road," I breathe.

"Don't," he says harshly.

But I do. "You love this," I purr, smiling and stroking him, exultant at his hardness.

A slight tremor moves through him.

"Stop it," he says again. His fingers press tighter against the tendons of my neck.

"You're twice my size," I tease, but my voice is hard. "So make me."

There is a brief moment of doubt as he hears the dare in my voice; I watch his eyes narrow, something coiling and bunching to strike behind them.

And then a dizzying panorama of the hallway as I am spun around, roughly and quickly and against the cold wall, pain in my jaw, in my breasts as I am pressed against it, as he crushes me cruelly, his cock prodding the small of my back. I am gasping for air as he snatches hands, yanks them up and above, long fingers wrapped around my wrists like a vise and freedom, freedom, freedom I am shackled and flying at once.

"You make everything so fucking _difficult_," he hisses, his breath hot against my neck, the side of my face.

"You love it. You love me."

"Shut up."

So I say it again, breathless, euphoric as he roars against my shoulder in anger and anguish.

His free hand roams me and I let him, reveling in the feeling of him. He is a fire now, raging, consuming everything in his path and I will take him, let the flames lick at me and show him how I will still stand once he burns himself out.

A gasp, a groan as his fingers grab the hem of my dress, impatiently moving beneath it and up, skimming my thigh on their way to the throbbing heat between my legs.

And then it is dark.

The sudden absence of the fluorescent light blinds me momentarily, my eyes taking several seconds to adjust to the dull red glow of the emergency exit sigh.

Our breathing is harsh, loud - staccato stabs of air in a stagnant space. My wrists are held tightly in Edward's one hand, but I could struggle, I could twist away.

But I wait.

"Fuck the lights," he mutters harshly under his breath, pressing against me tighter. "Fuck it all."

**+.+.+.+**

There is a twinge, a tug and a snap and I swallow against the tug of the leash I've always worn, my father's words burning into my skin, bitterness and bile rushing up my throat even though I know, I _know_ that this is how it was always going to be.

_Is this freedom?_ my mother whispers, as Piaf continues to wail mournfully in the background.

_Et je crie de douleur, de fureur et de rage_

_Et je pleure_

_Entraînée par la foule qui s'élance_

"I haven't done anything wrong," I whisper plaintively, hating my world and my weakness.

"It isn't a question of _wrong_," he huffs. "It's a question of good business relationships. It's a question of perception. I cannot do my job if you continue to undermine me in this way. Any interaction between my family and my clients, or the sons of the people who finance my clients, cannot reflect badly on me. Edward Cullen is off-limits." He pauses thoughtfully. "And so is his family."

His family.

A flash of Esme, of my mother's frozen smile, and my father's first unguarded laugh.

"What if he loves me?" I ask flatly, and my father's laugh is short and sharp before he sighs, grim amusement giving way to pity.

"Love is never enough, Isabella."

**+.+.+.+**

Edward's body still presses tightly against me, his free hand snaking over my shoulders, reaching across my chest, forcing my arms down, down, down until they are caught by my side as he wraps himself around me.

One of his hands reaches into the neckline of my dress, covering, squeezing, twisting my breast almost painfully as he holds me against him, his hips seeking friction against me in short, sharp thrusts.

"What do you know about want?" he hisses furiously against the fever of my skin. "What do you know about love?"

I laugh madly against the wall, light and free and flying, a child clapping with delight at the terrible beauty of destruction, of nature coming apart at the seams.

"You don't know..." he grunts. "I would have done anything for you. Anything..."

"It'll never be enough," I taunt, moaning, groaning, arching against him.

Freedom, freedom.

He growls angrily into my skin, hands releasing me long enough to reach down, yank my skirt above my hips again, one hand pushing roughly into my underwear.

"Goddamnit," he grunts against me, feeling the wet heat of me. "Goddamnit."

My hungry fingers flex against the wall, rendered useless by his unforgiving hold as he makes several hurried passes over my clit, but finesse doesn't matter, I am writhing, I am wanting.

He moves away from me slightly and I gasp, my hands falling to press against the wall on either side of my head, my chest expanding with the sudden rush of air that the movement affords me but it is over too soon, he claws at the fabric on my hips, pulling and ripping and grabbing and pushing back against me, his lips on my lips, on my face, on my neck.

He makes quick work of his own zipper and I reach up to grab his neck but he slaps me away. He roughly kneads my ass before pressing himself against me.

"I know you," he rasps. "I've always known you."

He sees, I think wildly. He sees and sees and keeps looking.

"You love me," I whisper. "Say it."

He grabs my thigh tightly, unceremoniously pulling my leg back and then he is at my entrance, guttural fucks and wordless moans, slamming into me, pushing all the way until I am shaking, breathing a soft wail against the wall. My cunt grips him, clenching around his cock and his fingers are so tight on my hip, on my thigh.

I press my lips into my arm as they form the shape of his name.

"I would have done anything," he whispers again hoarsely, thrusting fast and deep and _god_.

And I hear him, my mouth forming soundless syllables as my cheek presses against the dirty wall.

Subdue, sever.

I lower my arm, my hand reaching into my pocket.

**+.+.+.+**

"Do we understand one another?" my father asks, but my thoughts are far away.

Off-limits, he says now, and there is a pale pride in knowing that for once, I will not disappoint his wishes.

But I remember the glow of his taillights as he left us, and the shadow inside trembles with indignation as I fall back through time and touches and tears until I am a young girl again, pale and pretty in a spotless, starched dress, the mahogany curls so painstakingly arranged by Ilse spilling down my back. My feet, in their black patent Mary Janes, dangle high above the floor, my scrawny legs hanging off the edge of a couch not made for children. Beside me, my mother stiffens.

Across from us, my father's stoic face is relaxed into a foreign wreath of smile lines, his voice mirroring the thaw of his demeanor's detachment as Esme entertains him with anecdotes about her years in a Swiss boarding school while Carlisle and my mother look on.

Love is never enough, he says now, and it echoes through the past and settles into the lines of Renee Swan's frozen smile.

The sharp knock on my father's office door jolts me from my reverie.

"What is it, Paul?"

"Fletcher called, sir."

All signs of fatigue fall away from my father's face, his features tightening, alert. "And?"

"He says Sharpe's trailing on values. Voters don't think he's family-friendly."

"Has Sharpe called yet?"

"Yes, sir. Twice today."

"Good. Tell him to come up at 2:00."

Behind me, I can hear Paul hesitate.

"Is there something else?" my father demands.

"Um... yes, sir, I thought- you said that you needed to stay low-key for the next several days. The funeral-"

"Jesus," my father sighs. "You're right. Have him come by tomorrow night for the prayer service. I'll talk to him then."

Paul closes the door firmly behind him, but the years fall away from my eyes and I hear the sounds of another departure, of muffled yelling and a slamming door, followed by my mother's anguished cry.

_I'm ruined_, she'd wailed into her own hands, the limestone dust from the displaced gravel still settling in the tire tracks of my father's car and the tear tracks on my mother's face.

But my father averts his eyes as he speaks of Edward's family, of Esme and suddenly, there is a question that forms, its words writhing their way through my mind as my father's impatient eyes finally fall upon me again.

"Isabella," he says, but the question is there, stepping off the tightrope of my tongue and leaping into the abyss between us.

"Did you love Esme Masen?"

**+.+.+.+**

My fingers find purchase, close around the silk as I fight the urge to give up, to give in to the feel of him inside of me. Edward's breath is loud, harsh, ragged against my neck but then his hand is there too, fingers flexing around my windpipe, hard enough to make me gasp.

I come around him then, arching like an alley cat in heat as he curses when I clench him.

But he is not finished.

He pulls out of me and spins me around, sweat beading at his temples and dampening his shirt. He briefly assesses me, glowering at my lazy smile before pulling me down with sharp, angry movements. I am on the floor, hard tile pressing against my shoulder blades, fingers fisted around a long scrap of silk as he covers me with his body and roughly enters me again.

"Goddamnit," he cries savagely, his features contorted. There is passion and misery on his face and I lick my lips, sighing contentedly as he thrusts into me in a punishing rhythm. I wrap my legs around his hips, my arms around his neck and take him, take him, take him.

His eyes do not leave mine as he growls, curses, fucks me like a whore, and I do not protest.

"You want me to love you," he pants, snarling as I writhe underneath him. "You want everything." My empty hand traces the ridge of his taut shoulders, feeling him tense. "But I want things, too."

"What do you want?" I whisper, and he falters, his eyes roaming my face before hardening once more.

"Fuck you, Isabella," he snaps.

And then he moves again, face buried in my neck and he says nothing more.

But his lips and teeth paint words on my skin in violent strokes of color.

**+.+.+.+**

My words fall and fall and slip into my father's eyes, sinking like stones and there is a stirring, a ripple and he blinks.

The soft strains of Piaf continue to fill the silence.

_C'est peut-être ça_

_Qui fait pleurer de rire_

_Et vous fait courir_

_À minuit sous la pluie._

Answer me, I think, my limbs twitching, awakened and newly frantic with an energy I cannot explain. Say it.

**+.+.+.+**

"Say it," I command Edward, arching up and drawing him deeper. "Out loud."

He ignores me, purses his lips, and his hips do not lose their rhythm. He means to show me his control, his power.

And so I shall show him mine.

His neck flexes beneath my free hand, and it is an invitation.

**+.+.+.+**

Time seems to stretch and slow as my father sits, seemingly stunned. It is the first time I've ever seen him speechless.

Inside, my winged shadow straightens, takes notice of his immobility as the seconds drag on; every neuron and synapse is humming with need for his answer.

"The Masens have been loyal supporters of ours for years," he says after several long moments. "Your mother and I are- were extremely fond of both Carlisle and Esme." There is an edge and a catch in his voice, the veil behind his steady gaze neatly torn, rent down its middle to expose the gears shifting and spinning beyond it. "And parroting malicious rumors does you little credit."

These are the maneuverings of the eternal politico, but his tone. His eyes.

_Non, rien de rien_

_Non, je ne regrette rien_

He massages the bridge of his nose, a picture of agitation before dropping his hand suddenly, heaving a heavy sigh before straightening in his chair. "I think that's enough of dwelling in the past for today," he says curtly, reaching to the sound system to turn the music off completely.

He meets my gaze again, and the depths of his stare have once more flattened out into the endless, monotonous expanse of a wilderness, but he is not the first man I've seen that denies himself and I can read him.

I can read him.

"You loved her," I say, but he only stares into the fire and does not answer.

**+.+.+.+**

You love me, I think frantically. You love me.

Edward lowers himself onto my torso, arms snaking beneath me, pressing us together as his movements grow more frenzied, groaning long, low syllables into the hollow of my neck as his lips latch onto me, tasting and touching my skin with his tongue, with his teeth.

I feel the telltale tightening of my cunt around his cock but steady, I tell myself. Steady.

"Isabella," he groans.

I thrill and bristle.

Show him, show him.

He cannot hold me, I will not be kept.

I am no whore in a garden maze.

I am no weak woman begging for his love.

Quickly, quickly.

Do it now.

My empty hand grabs the tie, pulls it to its full length behind him and down, down.

Teach him a lesson.

Just a little lesson.

And leave.

My fingers twitch and clench around the ends, trembling with something darker than anticipation.

Show him, show him!

I will, I resolve, and then-

Above me, Edward stills.

He lifts his head, frowning down at me with curiosity and suspicion.

I meet his gaze impassively, willing him to continue, to move inside of me again, to show me his neck so I can show him all the ways I can own him.

He props himself on one elbow, cupping my shoulder with his other hand before swiftly running it up my arm, my wrist...

His fingers find my own tangled in silk.

**+.+.+.+**

My father's face is a structure collapsing slowly from within, walls of Jericho dropping at the seventh sound of the trumpet. I watch him as he breathes, remains calm, rigid and cold as the firelight tints and touches his features.

Finally, he stands.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with my attorneys."

"That's not until noon."

"We're finished here, Isabella."

"Aren't you going to make me sit and listen while you call Carlisle Masen?" I ask petulantly.

"No need. He'll be here tomorrow."

I freeze.

"We'll continue this discussion later, Isabella," he says roughly, dismissing me with a wave of his hand as he settles himself behind his desk.

And then I am moving, out the door and down the hall, click click click of my heels, faster now, faster and faster although no one is chasing me.

He'll deal with me later. Later, always later.

But later, Carlisle will be here.

The walls are still and silent, even as they crumble in my mind, everything crashing, creaking, crushed and collapsing into a sea that beats its angry waves against my ribs.

Up the stairs now, quickly, quickly before another trap snaps shut on your neck and shelter, I need shelter and a home away from here, a home where the Kingmaker can't reach me-

"Ms. Swan?"

Paul Strickland's voice stops me in my tracks.

An idea, a ghost of an image in my mind and I see a face, familiar and far-away but I reach and reach before I lose my nerve- "I need some information."

**+.+.+.+**

I am frozen, eyes and body waiting as Edward fingers the tie, frowning as he yanks it from my hand. He examines it in the dim light, confusion overtaking his features.

Adrenaline still courses through my system, shaking through my limbs as his eyes find mine again. Now, more than ever, I am exposed.

There is a moment, a beat as he contemplates the fabric. I tighten my legs around his hips. I'm leaving him, I think angrily, but the muscles of my thighs still mutinously clutch him to me as I wait for him to recoil in disgust.

But then his face clears and he laughs, dark and mean and breathless. His hand finds mine again, roughly prying open my fist and relinquishing the tie.

His smile is grim as he begins moving again, harder now as I watch him, wide-eyed and red-handed.

"If you're going to choke me, then fucking do it," he laughs, caustic and crushing me beneath him.

A thrust, and another thrust.

"Do it," he grunts again, goading me.

Breathe and breathe again.

But I am still confused.

And then he is moving again, and the silk is pulled, running through my fingers like an anchor rope until my hand is empty and grasping at air.

Why? I think, again and again until I am gasping it against him as he brutally claims my mouth.

"You're the one thing," he groans against me. "The only thing..."

My mouth is gasping, agape, a perversion of Bernini's St. Teresa as the heat of his hands fall to either side of my head.

I do not feel the silk against my mouth until the last second before he tightens the tie, pulls on each end until the fabric is taut between my teeth, the makeshift gag tugging the corners of my mouth into a distorted smile.

"The only thing," he growls again, his weight on his elbows, ducking his forehead down to my own as he drives himself into me. My hands clutch helplessly at his back, digging into the fabric stretching across his shoulders, and his breaths come hot and fast into my gagged and gaping mouth.

He does not finish his sentence before I finish everything, my hands falling uselessly, limply to the ground as I come around him, the shudders ripping through me until I am more, I am brighter and stronger and shivering and supernova, falling and flying and filled with him as he bellows something I cannot make out into my hair and moves, moves, moves until the image of him above me is burnt into my eyes like a negative.

And then we are nothing and everything, and I am the sum total of my limbs and my lungs and the seed spilled within as his slowing breaths scorch and brand my skin.

**+.+.+.+**

Freedom, freedom, freedom.

Paul's face is confused when he hears my request, but something in my voice seems to evoke the same pity with which he'd regarded me earlier, and he simply nods.

I move through my childhood home, swift and silent, a spectre roaming the ruins of an old world and I am tired, so tired of the cold.

My bag from New York has already been unpacked, its contents hung neatly in the closet until I grab and pull them from the hangers and throw them back into the suitcase. My body hums like a live wire and my hands cannot steadily hold what they need, fingers shaking and achingly around what I hastily shove into my luggage.

A necktie.

A notebook.

A passport.

Moments later, I am zipping the bag closed and my lungs are gasping and filling with oxygen, with possibility. Hope is a thing with feathers, an albatross threatening to burst out of my chest but quickly, quickly, before I freeze, calcified and caught on a pretty pedestal in the Kingmaker's house, a lonely relic of a forgotten era.

Freedom, something sings, and now it makes perfect sense, how foolish I've been-

"Here."

Startled, I look up to find Paul beside me. In his hand is a piece of paper.

"I didn't help you," he says quietly. "And I didn't see you leave."

Numb and breathless, I take the paper, glancing down to skim the information scrawled across it. Beneath everything else is the number of cab company.

"Thank you," I breathe, and he is already walking away and I will give it a moment, or maybe two moments, but either way I'm walking away, too.

A breath and a breath and another breath...

I am going home.

**+.+.+.+**

I tell him again to say it, but he only gives me a sad silence and pulls out and away.

He fastens his pants as I lie still on the floor, unable to move beneath the phantom weight of his body. The music on the other side of the wall has not stopped, its insistent beat stumbling across my brain like footsteps fading into an unknown distance.

Subdue and sever, I think, but they ring faint with the weakness of a faraway echo, my freedom cry fading into the silence of solitude.

Boneless, breathless - I have not won, and I have not lost.

I float, marking his breaths like a metronome until they are steady and even and stay, perhaps I'll stay but just for a little while longer, just long enough to puzzle him out, or maybe I have and did and am done, maybe I've completed the maze, maybe the quiet man next to me is not a predator or prey, but the prize-

"I did love you," Edward confesses quietly, staring at the wall in front of him.

My lungs hang limp, suspended and motionless in my chest as I stare at his profile, its sharp lines etched into something grave and sad in the scarlet-tinted darkness.

Something inside me shrieks indignantly, shrill and confused.

This is wrong. This is wrong.

This is not the end I planned.

"You win, Isabella. I hope that's enough for you."

He leaves.

And for once, I do not follow.

**+.+.+.++.+.+**


	21. The Brazen Thread

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I found a loose string dangling from the hem of my existence.

When I pulled it, the world around me began to unravel.

[William Reschke]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

My father —

the man who told me to never lie,

to never, ever lie

to be a good, good girl —

declared, ensconced in grief and power,

against a soundtrack that proclaimed there were no regrets, that

"Love is never enough."

And, for an instant, I believed.

But the hollow in his eyes gave him away.

The tremor of his hand.

And then the creator of my world began to unravel, thread by brazen thread.

No longer the omnipotent god of my childhood, the Kingmaker is now a sad old man, surrounded by rules and lackeys and the cocoon of his own influence. Sad and weak, a pale imitation of the god who once delivered keynote addresses on How to Run the World.

No longer the impervious Medusa of my memories, my mother has proven to be human after all, demonstrating just how cold she could become within the confines of a coroner's shroud.

And no longer the elusive demigod of the rakish grin and persuasive charm, Edward is more real to me in his absence than all the rest, his abandonment wearing like a canker somewhere deep in my chest.

All my idols, destroyed, and I —

I am left in a pile of rubble, a Roman amongst the ruins. All is dead and grey.

And now there is nothing left to worship.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'll leave," I tell my mother once, taut and trembling with rage after she explains, once again, why I am not the daughter she wanted.

But my words are deflected by her derisive laugh like pebbles ricocheting off of armor. "And go where?" she asks bitingly, eyebrows high and lips curled into a sneer.

And I answer: "Away."

**+.+.+.+**

I am leaving the Kingmaker's keep.

A nameless numbing, a pull in my chest.

I walk through haunted halls and childhood doorways, a shadow passing over the posts one last time.

Here and there are family portraits, posed, pretty and perfect, their matted eyes frozen and flat as they watch me walk past.

Stay, the walls whisper coldly. You don't exist out there. You'll shiver, wither and fade.

But I've seen my own future:

storm clouds gathered on the horizon of a flat earth,

harbingers of where the world ends and drops into nothing,

where I live in the shadow of a man who buckles under the weight of his own power.

The coldness of the house clings to my shoulders with long, freezing fingers that dig into my flesh with a grip like a vise.

Stay, the chill insists, and grows heavier with each of my footsteps.

And, for a moment, I wish I could stay,

and be cold again.

But there is the front door, and here is still another step closer, and another.

And now my bag is hastily thrown into the trunk of the cab on the curb.

And now I am in a backseat that smells like old leather and stale smoke.

"Dulles," I tell the driver, Paul's hastily scribbled directions in my hand.

And now the car pulls away from the curb.

And now I am gone, descending from Mount Olympus, the home of my childhood fading behind me like the last conscious wisps of a long dream.

**+.+.+.+**

I am a child, miserable and starched in a dress my mother chose.

After dinner, her smile is as stiff as her form, perched on the antique settee beside me in the Masens' drawing room.

"That Clayton girl is back," Carlisle remarks. "She's broken one of her records, I've heard."

Beside him, Esme nods. "I'm just glad she's in one piece."

"What was her time?" My father asks, sipping his scotch.

"Two hundred and eighty-five days," Esme replies, a wistful smile gracing her lips. "I can't even imagine the hardship..."

"No circumnavigating the globe for you, then?" my father asks with a grin.

"I'm sure I wouldn't last a week," she rejoins coyly.

He laughs. "I'm sure you could do anything, were you so inclined."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with whomever you're discussing," my mother interjects, her voice full of ice and iron.

Carlisle looks up from his drink. "Lisa Clayton," he informs her absently. "First British woman to single-hand around the world, non-stop. Quite a hero of Esme's, isn't she, darling?"

Esme nods.

"And a hero of yours, Charles?" my mother asks, an edge to her tone.

"I admire any woman who can demonstrate that kind of... independence."

"Do you?" she murmurs, sipping her tea.

His gaze is bland and steady as he stares her down for a moment, before his eyes shift to me.

"Where is Ilse? It's past Isabella's bedtime."

My nanny leads me away moments later, but I do not miss the hollow anger of my mother's expression as she watches my father laugh.

**+.+.+.+**

And now there is the roar of the jet engine,

the rush of take-off,

the revelation that this is it, that I am really leaving.

It pulls down on my shoulders as we taxi down the runway, the sleek aircraft gaining speed before slicing up, up, up.

My bones are feeble, brittle and frail beneath paper flesh. My fingers clutch the armrests of my seat and I watch as the city is swallowed by the bare silver clouds and the azure of an infinite sky.

The earth drops away like a forgotten toy, and I am afraid.

Minutes crawl by as I stare at the seat in front of me, my mind far away, re-tracing the lines of the large study filled with the sounds of Piaf, the bedroom and belongings and the stale air I've left behind.

The pity in Paul's eyes as he handed me the piece of paper.

My father's ire at being questioned.

My mother's hollow laugh.

My own footsteps on a cold sidewalk as Edward Cullen disappeared into the Morningstar Cafe.

His stony silence as I'd mocked him,

his open mouth against my neck after his climax,

his breath slowing, steadying before he breathed his final words to me and walked away.

I did love you.

But he never did, not really. He never could.

After all, what had I ever given him? Ice and claws and venom...

Unbidden, a memory of him flashes before my mind's eye: his face, thoughtful and serene in the reflection of a bathroom mirror as I straightened my hair.

I see you, he said.

A blink, and the memory recedes, left in the frigid clutches of the stratosphere around me.

And now I fly, as desperate as Icarus ever was for safe harbor, a place in which to mend melted, waxen wings.

**+.+.+.+**

There is the heat of the city, the sounds of the park, the taste of Zen butter and the unpleasant odor of the man who cackles and declares that I am marked.

"Get away from us," Ilse commands.

"One of me," he laughs, staring down into my eyes as she tries to move us away from him. "One of the cold ones. Another one of me. Passion! Passion! You'll die for your passion!"

I was a child, then.

But his words echo through the years, thumping in my chest now like a bodhrándrum.

"Marked! A little girl marked. It's not right, but it's real. Passion! She'll die for her passion! The luckiest unlucky passionate one…"

And now I know:

there is more than one way to lose a life.

**+.+.+.+**

Artemis hunted for pleasure; Athena, to hone her strategy.

And Hathor, the discontented daughter of the sun, left her father's house to wander the sky for a millennia.

"I'm leaving," I told Edward once, and the words used up my remaining breath as the weight of him pushed my chest further into the bed.

But he only called me a liar and clutched me tighter to himself.

And I let him.

Edward's words, Edward's voice. The heat of him, sweeping over my skin as I melted, dissolved, faded against his flesh.

And now I am not a goddess - no longer untouchable, no longer the master.

And although I am finally flying, I do not feel free.

**+.+.+.+**

Memories swirl, rise unbidden, phantoms begging to be resurrected. I let the old moments swallow me whole, their colors garish now that they are seen through my older eyes.

I am a child again, small and pale and plain with eyes that are too big and a mouth that stays pursed in seeming discontent. My legs are too long for my body, and I am thin all over. A perfectly awkward eleven year old, my mother sighs to Ilse when she thinks I cannot hear.

But tonight is different as I run up beneath the warm light of the garden lanterns, up to the Masen home, the sounds of the party drawing closer with each coltish stride. Music spills from the open terrace doors as my parents and their peers sip wine and socialize, and the proximity of it all is enough to make me feel like I could be grown and beautiful.

Run, run, run through the galley kitchen and up the stairs and stop, breathing heavy and looking down into the open rooms so I can watch.

The guests are dolled-up and done-over, gilded with their best and glazed from the wine. They laugh and talk and dance and commiserate on the daily difficulties of running corporations and households and social lives.

And in the midst of it all is Edward, handsome and full of the arrogance of youth and wealth.

They love him for it, they watch his every move. He has the power of their attention and he wears it well, smirking and laughing and winking; I want him all the more for it.

I do not make a sound, but Edward looks up suddenly, his eyes meeting mine and there is magic. Down the rabbit hole I go and I fall and land and stretch, growing until I am not a child anymore; I am taller and older, and finally, finally beautiful as I stand in front of him.

Our eyes meet and hold. If the figment of him is surprised by this dream-like alteration to the memory, he does not show it, patiently waiting for me to speak as I stare.

"You don't love me," I say plainly, and the party chatter ceases at the sound of it.

All eyes are on us now, but he remains unperturbed.

"Say it until it sounds true," he replies with a smile.

So I do.

**+.+.+.+**

"You don't," I gasp, and awaken.

But I am alone.

And I am exhausted, but I cannot sleep again.

Eventually, the night sky lightens to the pink hues of sunrise and all is still, serene and beautiful.

Soon after that, the patchwork quilt of land surrounding the sprawl of the airport grows closer and closer.

My ears pop as we descend.

A city skyline looms in the distance, then disappears behind runways, control towers and cargo trucks.

And now there is the jolt.

And now the run of the landing.

"Bienvenue, ladies and gentlemen," the pilot jovially announces over the intercom. I overhear the couple behind me anticipating the misery of jet lag.

And now there is the jostle of disembarking, the heaviness in my arms as my body moves sluggishly through the airbridge, demanding sleep with every breath.

I recall that it is almost midnight where I've come from, and that I have not slept for two days.

But I keep moving.

**+.+.+.+**

It is the first time that I stay the entire night with him, falling asleep between foreign sheets as Edward's fingers rest heavily upon the curve of my hip.

"Who is this little woman in my bed?" he breathes hours later, laughing softly as he exposes my naked breasts to the pale morning sunlight. "She's usually long gone by now."

And I, waking gracelessly, glare at him as he runs his finger down the mid-line of my chest, his hungry eyes watching as my nipples traitorously pebble.

"Like a gypsy dream," he murmurs with a smirk, tracing circles on my skin. "Bella with no last name, who comes from nowhere and knows no one."

He rolls to his back when I push him, hissing with pleasure at the feel of me.

"I know you," I reply, and overtake him.

**+.+.+.+**

The lobby of the Park Hyatt Vendôme is almost completely silent. My own breathing and the tapping of computer keys are the only noises; they blend into a soothing lullaby that weighs down on my already heavy eyelids. Even the white lilies in the vase in front of me seem to sweetly urge, sleep, sleep.

"I am sorry," the hotel receptionist says in accented English. Her perfectly made-up features are locked into a polite smile as she holds out my father's credit card. "Is there another method of payment you would like to try?"

I stare at her blankly, the beginnings of something desperate bubbling inside my chest.

"Try it again, please," I say.

She runs the card again, staring intently at her computer screen for several long moments as she waits for a reading.

When she looks at me again, there is another apology in her eyes.

Numbly, I reach out to take the proffered card from her hand; unconsciously, my thumb rubs over the raised lettering of my father's name.

Sometime between the purchase of my plane ticket and now, my father has realized what I've done, and has acted accordingly.

"How much is the room?" I ask flatly.

"Seven hundred and thirty euros."

I blink, thinking of the fifty euros I casually spent on cab fare, of the remaining thirty-five in my wallet-

It is now all I have.

The clerk's smile only falters slightly as I turn to leave, weariness dogging every new step.

**+.+.+.+**

In between her questions and my answers, there is only the sound of Dr. Cope's pen as it scratches across the notepad.

"What do you want for yourself, Isabella?" she asks, and the pen stills, waiting.

"Freedom," I answer without thinking.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"And what does freedom mean to you?"

She waits, pen poised.

But I do not answer, because I do not know.

**+.+.+.+**

Paris.

It is _La Ville-Lumière_, the City of Lights and the City of Love.

And I am alone in it.

From where I stand, I can see both the marble storefront of Tiffany & Co. and the oxidized copper of the Vendôme Column.

I have been here before, on these busy streets that run wild, their velveteen ribbons slicing through the crowded arrondissements, the tree-lined boulevards and the Baron Haussman architecture.

But the Paris I experienced as a schoolgirl is gone now, Its moneyed doors closed to me as I stand on the busy sidewalk along the Rue de la Paix. The privileged veneer has been stripped away to reveal the angry bones of yet another hungry city.

I think of my abandoned bedrooms in Washington and New York. I think of the way the luxury mattress perfectly conformed to my body as I slept beneath silk sheets and down comforters.

I think of the warmth of two bodies beneath those comforters, of bronze hair on those pillows. Of glass-green eyes across the counterpane.

A street vendor gives me directions to the Montparnasse train station before unsuccessfully convincing me to purchase a map of the city.

Gare Montparnasse is a little over four kilometres, he informs me in rapid-fire French.

I try to remember how to convert the distance to miles before deciding it doesn't matter.

And now I begin to walk,

but everything is an obstacle,

and I am so, so tired.

**+.+.+.+**

I am a woman, new to New York, the shadow of Jacob Black still tinting my vision.

The balcony of my TriBeCa apartment is one perch among many.

I revel in the anonymity, the bite of the cold against my undress.

The cacophony of traffic drifts up from the streets below and I am untouchable,

a Gothic grotesque that blends into the stone architecture.

Clad only in underwear, I wait for something to show me myself.

**+.+.+.+**

Gare Montparnasse is ahead of me now, the large letters above its entrance looming over the street.

There are just enough euros in my wallet to purchase a ticket to Carentan.

And now I collapse into my seat. My eyelids droop as I sit, hungry and tired and cold, in an old plastic seat on the train out of Paris.

Sleep descends but I beat it back as one does a fog, failing but waking as soon as my head drops to my chest.

And now the countryside flies by in a rush of brown and grey, the fields lying barren beneath a bleak winter sky.

Minutes crawl and congeal, until—

finally, something breaks the horizon:

a steeple jutting proudly into the sky, the harsh architecture of a cathedral dominating on the city hill, looming over the town - a cranky relic of a long-forgotten era.

I have arrived in Carentan, and my journey is almost finished.

**+.+.+.+**

"Why so many books about war?" I ask Edward one evening as we lie, sweaty and sated on the carpeted floor of his den.

Still panting, he stretches his neck to follow my gaze to the bookshelf. "Oh... it's an interest of mine."

"You like to fight," I declare, cruelly pinching his earlobe, smiling as he gasps and tries to pull away.

"I like to read about strategy," he clarifies. I rest my fingers on his lips, pushing in until he opens, lightly bites the tips of them.

"Strategy is for fighters. So tell me," I whisper, curling my fingers until they are hooked in the corner of his mouth, mimicking his hold on me from several nights prior, "do you like to fight, Edward?"

"That would depend on the enemy," he counters, and I feel him stirring inside of me once more. "I like fights I can win."

I sit up, curl my fingers into his hips underneath me as he continues to harden. "Do you think you'll win this one?" I ask, squeezing him with every part of me, daring him to look away.

He smirks.

"Who says I haven't already?"

**+.+.+.+**

Gilles is young and fat, with a sweaty face and a lazy eye. He overhears me outside the brasserie inquiring about the bus station and asks me where I'm headed.

His hand is clammy as he helps me into his battered Fiat Punto, but he is willing to take me to Sainte-Mère-Église on his way to Montebourg.

"I'm going to keep my eye on you," he says with a grin. "Do not try to rob me."

As if I could, I want to snap. My limbs feel leaden, dead and numb and useless.

"What is in Sainte-Mère-Église?" he asks as we speed down the Rue de la Halle.

"A friend."

"A close friend, since you have traveled all this way?"

"Yes," I answer flatly.

He nods and smiles, unperturbed by my demeanor.

And now the road is an ebony ribbon through the wintry farmland; not once does he stop talking.

**+.+.+.+**

"You are strong, the strongest," someone once told me, her blue eyes snapping with conviction, spilling with tears.

I did not believe it then.

I do not believe it now.

**+.+.+.+**

And now-

I am finally here.

Slowly, exhausted, I uncrumple Paul's hastily-written note and read the last few lines to be sure.

_Chambres d'Hôtes - "Au Chien Pèlerin"_

2, chemin du Nord

Here.

Inside a clean, quaint stone house that has been converted into a Bed & Breakfast.

The small, floral-themed foyer, with its cloying sweet smell, makes me fidget beneath the familiar itch of claustrophobia.

But now there is also anticipation as I stand, waiting for someone to appear behind the tiny reception desk.

Every run, after all, has its end.

And now there is nowhere else to go.

"_Bonjour_," a cheerful voice calls from somewhere on the other side of the wall behind the desk. "_Un moment_."

After a moment, a tall woman in jeans and a work shirt appears from around the corner. She cannot be more than fifty-five, her greying blond hair wound into a frayed coronet around a thin, sharp face. "_Comment puis-je vous aider_?" she inquires politely.

I frown with disappointment, severe and scraping against my lungs. "_Anglais_?" I ask, too tired to speak anything but my native tongue.

"I speak English," she says, smiling. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Are you the only one here?" I ask abruptly.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm looking for the owner."

"I am the owner."

"Are you the only owner?"

"I am Caroline Lethuillier," she informs me, her demeanor cooling. "What is your name? If you have a reservation-"

"I don't."

"We are booked until the Spring."

"I've traveled from Washington, DC nonstop since yesterday."

"We are full."

I stare at her.

"I have no ride, and no money. I came here-"

"I am not sure what you expect me to do," she interrupts bluntly. "This is not a shelter."

"-I'm looking for someone-"

She opens her mouth to speak again when a loud crash sounds from somewhere behind her.

"Caroline!" someone yells from inside. "_Ich habe das Bild an die Wand gehängt_!"

"_Maman_," Caroline replies loudly. "_Un moment_."

"_Wo ist Christophe_?" the voice yells again.

Only now it is closer, its timbre more recognizable.

"_Attends_, _Maman_!"

"Caroline-"

I turn to look at the owner of the voice as she comes into the foyer, fatigue and hope burning in my head like a fever.

A slight woman with grey hair and cornflower blue eyes. There is still the square jaw, the strong hands that clutch the mirror she is holding.

Her many wrinkles crease even further when she sees me.

"_Bonjour_," she says politely.

"English," Caroline tells her before turning back to me. "I am sorry, but if you are-"

But I am not listening.

"Hello," I tell the older woman. "Do you remember me?"

She frowns, her eyes narrowed as she examines my face.

And then-

Recognition replaces confusion, writing itself into every line of her weathered features.

"Isabella?" she gasps.

And now I open my mouth to speak, my voice coming out in a croak:

"Ilse."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	22. La Dame Rouge

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough

to truly consecrate the hour.

I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough

to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart.

I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action;

and want during times that beg questions,

where something is up,

to be among those in the know,

or else be alone.

[Rainer Maria Rilke]

+.+.+.++.+.+.+

My queen is exposed.

I frown down upon the red-stained ivory chess piece, its details illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through Edward's floor-to-ceiling windows. It is the only light we have, the beams painting the darkness of the den in icy, silver hues. We are each one pawn down and Edward's face is thoughtful, dark eyebrows drawn down in contemplation as we survey the board… and we could be marble, we could be stone, still and quiet, our skin cast into pale tones that match the ivory squares of the Staunton chess set between us.

I am naked, save for the flat sheet from Edward's bed that I've draped around my body. He's attired himself similarly with an afghan from his Horchow sofa; its soft, dark material drapes across his hips as he sits across the small table from me. I finish deliberating and make my move, placing the red queen three squares away from the center, out of the reach of Edward's white knight. He watches my move and smiles, waiting only a moment before moving one of his pawns into play.

There is no immediate threat and I am free to advance; cautiously, I move the red bishop to a square adjacent to the white knight. A warning.

"Do you know who Viswanathan Anand is?" Edward asks after a moment. He moves his bishop into place behind his own knight; I can now no longer attack him without suffering immediate retribution.

I answer him with a shake of my head, eyes fixed on the board. He is silent while I ponder the pieces, looking for another way to strike. Finally, I move my own knight into play.

"He's a chess grandmaster, widely considered to be one of the foremost players in the world," Edward continues, moving another white pawn into place two squares away from my queen.

I scowl as I see what he's done; my queen's movement is now limited. With little else for me to do, my bishop retreats.

"And?" I demand, annoyed at the dearth of options.

He only shrugs. My eyes follow his elegant fingers as they maneuver the white knight to the center of the board.

With the placement of his pieces and mine, my queen is practically immobilized.

"He once said that chess is a language. It can be developed as a skill through constant practice, but true fluency comes when experience is augmented by natural ability."

Frowning, I move my queen to the only defensive option available to her: one square to the right.

"And I suppose you consider yourself fluent," I muse.

His smile widens at my derision. The white knight moves again, this time landing squarely amidst the ranks of my own pieces.

"Check," he announces.

Fuck, I think, but do not say; his amused expression seems to imply that he's heard me anyway.

"The three-pronged knight fork," he informs me with an ingratiating smirk. "The strategy allows the knight to simultaneously attack two opponent pieces from a position invulnerable to counterattack."

I glare at him, moving my king out of danger and bracing at what I know will come next.

"Farewell, milady," he intones smugly, removing the red queen from the board as I grit my teeth in silence.

Eight moves later, he's won the game without even developing his king side.

"Don't sulk," he chides with a laugh, gripping the afghan around him as he stands up. "You did well for a novice."

"I'm not a novice," I snap, my skin flushed with anger at a loss wrought by my own incompetence. My fingers tense around the edges of my sheet as I replay his strategy in my mind. Stupid, stupid girl.

Ignoring my reticence, he comes around the table, leaning over me to press his lips into my hair.

"I don't believe you," he says against me, his hands running across my bare shoulders.

"My father taught me how to play," I inform him coldly, stiffening further as he chuckles. "Don't fucking laugh at me."

"My apologies," he replies, his tone is anything but remorseful. "It's a shame he didn't teach you better than this."

I grab his wrist as his hand moves beneath my sheet, pushing his roving fingers away. Undaunted, he returns, ignoring my grasp as his hand finds purchase on my breast. He hums appreciatively as he fondles me; I fight a moan as his fingers deftly tease my nipple into a peak. "One win doesn't make you an expert."

"Years of wins do."

A flash, a memory of his slim hips rutting against a nameless slut in a garden maze.

"You play with more aggression than strategy," he continues, pressing his mouth to the skin beneath my ear. "Your game is too reactionary… a series of unconnected assaults or defenses, all leading to the capture of your queen." His fingers release my breast and move further down, seeking the juncture between my thighs. "Open," he murmurs.

Defiant, I clench my legs together tighter.

His low laughter rumbles against my neck. "Don't be a sore loser, Isabella. I'm owed the spoils of my victory."

I push my seat back abruptly. "I don't owe you anything," I declare, gathering the sheet around me and preparing to go find my clothes. "It's just a game."

But he is faster than I am, pulling me back to him, turning me around and trapping me between his body and the table.

"Everything's a game to you," he retorts, pulling my sheet open and pressing himself against me. "But the rules don't change just because you lose."

I can feel the slight changes in his body from the first time I fucked him; he is leaner, sharper all over. The beginnings of yuppie flab I'd noted in his physique several weeks ago have all but disappeared. Now, it is only muscle and flesh and hardness that press against my body.

"So I beat you one time," he continues, trapping me with his arms as I gaze impassively up into his face. "Let me enjoy it."

"You're too used to winning."

"Not with you. Never with you."

He moves to kiss me. I dodge him. "You took my queen."

"It's just a game," he says, parroting my words.

"Fuck off."

"I'm _trying_," he retorts. He pulls away and leans forward, his arm reaching to the table behind me before he stands upright again. Something is pressed into my palm. "Here."

I look down to see what he's placed in my hand.

The red queen.

"She's yours," he says.

His arms draw me against him until my face rests on the flesh above his heartbeat.

It is intimate, this silence. His hands seek, spread across my flesh and hold me to him, one splayed across my lower back as the other slowly explores the path of my spine. Minutes pass, filled with only his pulse and our breaths until his fingers move up, up, up to cradle the base of my skull and for a moment, just a moment, my mind is blank, and I am as mute and powerless as the queen clutched in my hand.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he asks, his voice just above a whisper against my hair.

Pressed to his chest, eyes wide, I nod.

"I'm fucking tired of playing games."

For several long moments, I am silent.

And when he moves to kiss me again, I let him.

**+.+.+.+**

I open my eyes, and there is only darkness.

From all sides, the walls whisper words of a foreign tongue.

The pillow beneath my head is unfamiliar. Ilse's homemade quilt is too heavy.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Edward asked me once, before speaking words that fell into a hole in my chest, landing like nickels into a tin cup and for days afterward I could still feel the impact, could still hear the rattle, clang, clinking of echoes inside.

But they are silent now, quieted by an ocean of distance and the weight of an odd, shapeless shadow that presses itself against the wet-muscled caverns of my heart until there is nothing but the hollow rise and fall of my chest.

My eyes slowly adjust to the dark room. Every decision I've ever made is hovering above me, echoing consequences and paths not taken.

A night-hued sky blankets the world beyond the window, and I turn toward it, my limbs twitching restlessly beneath the heavy blankets, muscles anxious for movement. I remember the thrill of boneless limbs, exhaustion and sweat on sex-scented sheets. I remember the hours in between, of auburn hair and white knights and a sharp jaw clenched in contemplation.

I move my arm into a beam of the moonlight, watching the skin transform into the color of the bones beneath and remembering the squares of a chessboard. I keep my hand in mid-air, fingers tracing invisible words upon a silvered ceiling, runes of madness and wanting and fear until I can stand it no longer, closing my eyes against the reality of this silver room, of the cold winter moonlight that has overwhelmed it and the sliver of something cold in the core of me.

Waking dreams haunt me: a flash, a silhouette of my mother's profile as she spins around me like a dervish, belting the words of _Padam, Padam_. Intractable as ever, my father sits quietly by the fireplace, absently nodding his head in time to the music and staring into the flames. He ignores the brush of my mother's skirt on his arm as she dances past.

"_Mais il m'a coupé la parole_

_Il parle toujours avant moi_

_Et sa voix couvre ma voix…"_

"Dance, Isabella," my mother commands, glowering when I shake my head. She begins to stalk toward me, her delicate features resolute and angry as her heels cross the expanse of the room.

Her fingers come close enough for me to smell the lilac lotion on her hands and I start, blinking the vision away, fighting to drift back into the recesses of sleep.

**+.+.+.+**

"Is it of any significance to you," Dr. Cope begins slowly, "that the only men you've allowed yourself to become attached to are somehow connected to your father or his friends?"

"It seems to be significant to you."

"Should I just chalk it up to coincidence?"

I sigh, needlessly examining my nails. "Do whatever you want."

**+.+.+.+**

Sunlight.

The _chambre d'hôte _bedroom is cold; I shiver as I slowly move through the room to dress and prepare to go downstairs. The mirror in the bathroom shows a small, pale woman with limp hair and tired eyes and I remember my arrival like it was a fever dream the vivid colors of Caroline's annoyance, the haze of the surprised, stilted welcome and the familiarity of Ilse's embrace.

I leave the small, third-floor bedroom and make my way through old hallways, their cream walls adorned with the occasional black-and-white photograph of what I assume is the Normandy countryside. Beside each door is a placard stating the name of the room within.

Through the door at the end of the hall is a staircase; from the smells inside, the rickety, wooden steps lead directly down to the kitchen. I follow them down with tentative footsteps.

It is indeed a kitchen, and a large one at that. A massive island dominates the center of the room, its surface covered with raw vegetables and a few pots. A large window at the sink looks into the house's courtyard; there is a door on the same wall that leads outside.

Behind the island, Ilse's daughter Caroline looks up from a cutting board, her hands stilling as she sees me. "Good morning," she greets.

"Good morning."

"I trust you were able to rest."

"Yes, thank you."

"You are hungry?"

"Yes."

"There is food in the dining room," she says, nodding her head in the direction of a large wooden door behind her.

"Thank you."

I move past her toward the dining room door, but her voice stops me. "My mother has gone to see her friends in the village, she informs me.

"When will she be back?"

"I can't imagine it will be long. She is very eager to speak with you."

Her tone is polite, but there is a blade of coolness that runs through it; her face wears an expression of inscrutable blandness. Her manners only barely conceal that she doesn't like me.

"I'm eager to see her as well," I reply. "We were very close."

A small flinch behind her eyes, barely detectable, but I see it I've poked an old wound.

I do not care; I don't like her either.

The spark in her gaze holds, and I am ready for a riposte when her eyes suddenly dart to something behind me, their coolness warming into welcome.

I turn to find a giant of a man, tow-headed and rangy, cursing as he removes his coat. He is handsome and well-built, his broad shoulders dominating the space around him as he comes in to kiss Caroline on the cheek. I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose at his stained coveralls. He has the beginnings of a beard, and his features are offset by the crooked line of his nose. His eyes, I note, are a startling pale blue.

"How is our menagerie?" Caroline asks him.

"_Comme-ci, comme-ça,_" he shrugs, grabbing a small carrot before popping it into his mouth. "_Les poulets-_"

"_Anglais_," Caroline interrupts, her eyes hardening as she nods toward me. _"Notre invitée est américain_."

He looks at me now, pale eyes baldly assessing my face and frame as he chews. "Hello."

"Laurent is my son," Caroline explains. "Our _ouvrier agricole_."

"A farm hand," I clarify.

He smirks. "And you are Little Isabella, the new stray, no?"

I glare at him for a moment, annoyed at the amusement in his eyes.

"A pleasure to meet you," I say stiffly, turning to leave. The low, rolling sound of his quiet laughter follows me as I exit the room.

I move past the dining room and toward the main entryway, annoyed and unsettled. A pair of galoshes sits just inside the courtyard door; they look a bit too large, but I slide them on anyway and slip outside.

The chill air nips at the exposed skin of my neck, hands and face, but the prospect of Caroline's hard eyes and Laurent's mockingly indifferent ones make the prospect of going back inside unappealing.

There is a large, fenced-in field on the other side of the road beyond the courtyard and I begin to walk toward it, ignoring the cold and resisting the thoughts and voices that have plagued me since waking up. The distance I've traveled was intended to lighten the weight of my memories, making them into nothing more than an ephemeral, poisonous mist of the past.

I want them stripped away, sloughed off of my body until my skin bleeds raw.

I keep walking, and the air ceases to bite as my skin grows numb.

**+.+.+.+**

"Aren't they beautiful?" Ilse sighs reverently.

My eight-year-old eyes follow her gaze to the pair of white swans nestled against one another on my father's pond. They could be a sculpture, the graceful lines of their necks, the spotless white of their feathers standing out the dark water behind our family's East Hampton cottage.

They are my father's gift to my mother, introduced in an ornate golden cage at her birthday party the night before as he'd announced the intended parallel to their guests. Swans are mated for life, he'd told everyone present, and my mother had smiled wanly and kissed his cheek.

The party is over now, and the majestic birds, the symbol of my parents' everlasting love, have been released from their cage and abandoned to the tranquility of the back property.

"Why do swans mate for life?" I ask Ilse. "I thought animals didn't feel love."

"I believe some animals do," she sighs, her eyes fixed on the elegant birds as they skim the pond's surface. "Just as I believe some humans do not. And love is not a feeling, child."

I frown, processing her words. "Then how do you know if you love something?" I ask after a few moments.

"You know when something is more important to you than yourself," she says thoughtfully. "But it is the nature of the thing, not the feeling of it."

I blink, confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means that when you are willing to suffer so that another does not, then you love them."

I am silent as I process her answer.

"But how do I know for sure?" I ask after an extended silence.

She smiles down at me. "Only you know that, _Liebchen_."

"Then I don't think I love anything."

"Nothing at all?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No. Anyway, it sounds foolish."

"It does," she admits.

"What do you love?"

"You, _Liebchen_, and my own children. And of course, Chef's lemon squares."

We watch the swans in silence as my fingers pluck carelessly at my parents' manicured fescue lawn.

"I don't like your children," I blurt sullenly.

"Hush," she admonishes me, imperturbable as always. "You do not know them."

"Do you love them more than me?"

"I love you all more than I can say."

"But am I your favorite?"

Ilse chuckles. "You are my most favorite Swan in the whole world. And much prettier than those silly birds," she adds, gesturing to the pair on the water.

I frown, following her gaze. "They never do anything without the other one."

"They are mates, which means they are a set now. One does not go without the other."

"That sounds boring. When I'm grown, I'll do everything I want, by myself."

"That sounds very lonely, Isabella."

I shrug.

A few days later, a neighbor's Pharaoh hound dog with white feathers in its mouth is spotted behind the boathouse. Yards away, the slaughtered male swan lies bloodied and motionless beneath the blank, vigilant stare of his mate.

I do not forget it the grotesque angle of the bird's broken neck or the red stains on his once-pristine wings.

And I do not forget the sight of his forlorn mate days later, plucking out her own feathers in her grief before swimming away, leaving a white-wisped wake across the top of the pond's placid depths.

**+.+.+.+**

The bleak winter sun moves higher as I continue on, ignoring the chill of an indifferent French countryside. The sunlight is strong enough only to illuminate, offering little warmth.

A paved road lies a few dozen yards to my left, a black ribbon through and beyond the large field. Tall grass sweeps against my knees, pulling against my steps as a small cluster of brown and white cows lift their heads to stare blankly as I pass.

Moments from the past circle in the silence, memories surrounding me before charging, breaching the surface and reaching, arms outstretched and grasping fingers cold with the depth of their hiding places.

My father, teaching me of history and power, showcasing everything within his control, smiling as we sail Horus across a docile sea.

My mother: a prettily plumed bird in an even prettier cage, married for money and bred for only the best, sobbing as his taillights fade into a summer evening.

The dimming spark behind my father's eyes after he returns.

Her cruelty, his melancholy.

Ilse's worried eyes as I am racked with shivers while she bathes and shushes me, washing the traces of the Masens' garden maze off of my young skin and not understanding that I'm fine, of course I am fine.

The rush of dominating the man beneath me as Tyler shudders and comes, shouts as I ride him with the precision and force of a dressage master. The anger and shame of a corrupted priest, of Jacob and other lovers indignant and unmanned as I taunt them, tease them, own them and fuck them. My own transformation from a girl into the raging, ruling lines of Ammut, of Artemis, of other untamed things.

Edward's rapturous expression as he enters me, the feeling of triumph coursing through my veins as I realize I've toppled the pedestal constructed in my youth, vanquished the monster in the maze.

The coldness as I realize that the victory comes with a prize: a beating, burning heart.

Edward's disgust as he holds a manila envelope and rips apart the past.

His ragged breathing as he fucks me on a floor.

The lines of his back as he leaves.

And the numbness with which I recite the ugly poetry of the past.

"_All as before: against the dining-room windows," _Akhmatova once wrote.

"_Beats the scattered windswept snow,_

_And I have not changed either,_

_But a man came to me._

_I asked"What do you want?"_

_He replied"To be with you in Hell."_

_I laughed"Oh, you'll foredoom_

_Us both to disaster."_

"Isabella!" a voice calls, interrupting my thoughts.

I turn to see Ilse standing by the road beyond the field's fence, her legs straddling the bar of her bicycle. I say nothing as she leans it against the fence, waiting as she crawls between the wooden slats with an agility belying her age. Her attire seems to be at odds with a social jaunt to the village her stained dungarees, galoshes, and coat would be less out-of-place in a chicken coop.

"_Guten morgen_," I call, remembering her fondness for her native tongue.

She grins at the salutation. "Ah! _Guten morgen_, Isabella," she replies as she approaches. "It is an odd thing to see you walking in our pastures."

"It is an odd thing to walk them," I answer.

She smiles, extending her hand and I take it, letting her hold me at arm's length for a moment as she looks me up and down. Her face has not changed much, save for the added wrinkles and cheekbones that have grown more pronounced with a bit of weight loss.

In her hands the passing years make themselves felt; the fingers are frail, stiff and swollen with arthritis as they squeeze my hand. Are these the same nimble fingers that braided my hair, buttoned my dresses?

"The Isabella of my memory was a pale, pretty child with eyes too big for her face and no meat on her bones," she muses. "Who is this beautiful young lady who has taken her place?" She frowns as I fight a shiver.

"There is much to talk about, Isabella, but you are freezing. Come now we will walk back together."

**+.+.+.+**

"Isabella," my mother calls, and I turn from my place on the stairs to face her.

The shine of a cocktail still glistens on both her pursed lips and in the light of her critical gaze. "Why is Katherine crying?" she asks.

"She tried to read my book."

"Let her read it, then."

"It's _my_ book."

"Yes, spoiled girl, and her mother is _my_ friend who I'd prefer you didn't run off. You will need to learn to share so that you and Katherine can get along."

"I don't like her."

She sighs, exasperated. "Most nine-year-olds want friends, you know."

"I don't. She's boring and nosy, and she tattles."

"How do you expect others to tolerate you when you won't take the trouble to be polite?" she snaps.

"Ilse _tolerates_ me," I retort defensively.

For a long moment, my mother regards me, her perfect face pulled into a frown.

"She's paid to," she declares finally, turning to descend the rest of the stairs. I glare at her retreating form until, after a few steps down, she turns back again. "Ilse is not like us, Isabella," my mother states coldly. "She isn't your family. Do not make the mistake of forgetting who is."

**+.+.+.+**

We walk, and Ilse talks.

She talks of the _chambre d'hôte_, of her guests and her treasured hens and her prize cows and her grandchildren. She tells me of the village of Sainte-Mère-Église, of the people there and the charming way they nod their heads to her as she passes on her bicycle. "They call me _Omi_," she chuckles. "It is the only German word they can say without an accent."

"What does it mean?"

"'Grandmother, she answers with a wistful laugh. "As if I need another thing to remind me that I am old."

I am silent, thinking of her weathered hands.

"Have you met Laurent?" she asks.

"Yes."

"He is my treasure, the only one of his siblings who stayed, you know. My grandchildren they are spread out in many places," she sighs. "Our little corner of the world does not hold much excitement for them. But Laurent is so good."

"Is that why he stayed?"

"He stays for me, and for his mother my daughter, Caroline, whom you met yesterday."

"I saw her again this morning. She doesn't like me."

Ilse smiles and nods, looking away to the horizon. "She has reason to be reticent with strangers."

"I'm not exactly a stranger."

Ilse laughs.

"What?" I demand.

"It is a strange thing," she answers with a smile. "Are you a stranger? No, you are not. And yet, yes, of course you are."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Isabella," she says kindly. "We must learn to know each other again. And you must learn to have patience with my daughter. Caroline is a kind person who has dealt with her circumstances the only way she knows how." She pauses. "Like you, I think."

I stare at the ground, processing her words and fighting the urge to run again.

"Whatever you feel, Isabella, know that you are a welcomed guest in my home."

We walk without speaking; the only sounds are the soft, rhythmic padding of our footsteps and the swish of the grass against our legs.

I do not break the silence until the main house is several yards away. "Ilse?"

"Yes?"

"Caroline's 'circumstances what are they?"

"I will have her tell you someday," she answers. "But it is not a happy story."

I laugh; the sound is bitter and sharp. Ilse looks at me intently.

"Will you tell me what has happened?" she asks.

I shrug. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop," she replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of her faded lips. "Until then, I will wait."

**+.+.+.+**

"Edward?"

"Yes, Isabella?"

"Tell me what this is."

He looks up from his computer, his eyes darting to my fingers as they trace the underside of his grand piano's top board. He stiffens almost imperceptibly.

"Are you snooping, Isabella?" he asks, but his smirk does not hide the tightening of his eyes.

I shrug. "As you suggested, I'm keeping myself occupied while you answer your emails."

"I'll only be a moment- come away from there. Please."

I ignore him, lifting the board further, propping it at an angle that allows me to see the pattern of the deep scratches I'd detected with roving fingers.

Upon closer inspection, they are not random grooves at all they are words.

"'_The game still continues, but no one has fun_, I read out loud.

"Stop."

I fight a flinch at the sudden, unexpected nearness of him. His hands come up behind me to lower the prop of the top board until the piano is shut.

"So mysterious," I breathe, teasing as I turn to face him.

His smile is only slightly strained. "Mystery is what we do best, apparently."

"So there's no chance you'll tell me why you've chosen to deface a Bösendorfer with depressing song lyrics?"

"No. But if you must know, it's a line from a Henry James poem."

I smile, determined now to discover more of the story of this blueblood boy, more of the puzzle pieces I don't know, more of what could compel him to meticulously carve a line of poetry into something so priceless.

My hand moves up his chest, fingers glancing against his neck before winding into his hair. "I do enjoy a man who knows his way around a poem."

He nods, but his eyes are far away and his lips, as they descend to meet my own, are pursed into a frown.

**+.+.+.+**

Laurent is sitting on a small wooden bench as we re-enter _Au Chien Pèlerin's_ courtyard, his long fingers deftly handling an apple as he peels away its skin with a jackknife. A grey wolfhound lolls indolently at his feet.

He greets Ilse with a grin. "You have found your stray, eh?"

She only chuckles, affectionately ruffling his hair as the dog at his feet whines plaintively.

"Omi, you know the rule: if you will pet me, you will pet Sascha," he sighs. "She gets jealous."

"I will let Isabella have the privilege," Ilse replies. "She and Sascha have not been introduced?"

"I don't like dogs," I inform them flatly.

Laurent only smirks. "Dogs are God's gift to the pure in heart. And who does not like Sascha? She is a saint." As if on cue, the dog in question places her mangy gray head on Laurent's knee. He mutters something to her in French before offering her his unbroken apple peel; she devours it as he scratches the space behind her ears.

"Laurent," Ilse says before I have a chance to respond. "Isabella has seen the pastures this morning… I wonder if you would take her down to the orchards as well?"

"_Je suis pas un guide touristique_," he tells her rudely. "If she wants to see the orchards, she can help me prune the trees."

"Laurent," she sighs.

He only looks me up and down; his eyes holds a good-humored challenge. "I do not suppose you have worked in an orchard before? Of course not. Look at those skinny arms."

"_Arrête_, Laurent. You are embarrassing her."

He takes a bite of his apple, ignoring her lecturing tone as he stares at me. I stare back for only a few moments before my indignation acquires an odd edge… a spark, a flicker, a flame begins to tickle at the base of my skull. There is something here, something familiar, a small, straining light in the darkness. Beside me, Ilse continues to scold, but her voice fades further as my thoughts gather, strain and race.

The intolerable, ephemeral void of the last few days makes its weight felt: cold, black and heavy- cloaks of water pulsing and pressing, and I've mourned my Poseidon, I've let his absence unsettle me, let it wear like a canker in my chest. My limbs have searched, lurched for relief as an old universe faded, collapsing behind me, its cold remnants nipping at my heels.

Freedom, I told Edward. Freedom, I said.

Here it is, presented as a dare in the insolent gray eyes of a farmhand.

And I speak, the words leaping off my tongue before I can pull them into check…

"I can work."

In my periphery, Ilse stares at me, astonished. "Isabella," she begins. "It is not necessary-"

"_C'est le pied_!" Laurent interrupts; somewhere beneath his playfulness, I detect a hint of surprise. "It is settled, then."

I smile at him and inhale, searching for the familiar rush, the beginning of something new, an escape from escape itself:

Freedom.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	23. Ramus Pomifer

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Bright as ever flows the sea,

Bright as ever shines the sun,

But alas! they seem to me

Not the sun that used to be,

Not the tides that used to run.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

_**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**_

The sky falls. The earth moves.

Shifting sands, moving plates, the friction of stones and fault lines and the thundering crashes of felled trees. Every sound carries the timbre of my mother's voice.

Shadows in the sky twist and dance across the violent landscape as I stand atop the rubble of a crumbled ivory tower. My heart is hot in my chest, brutally beating chaotic rhythms against the paper flesh of my neck, my wrists, my inner thigh.

The groans of a dying world echo in my bones like a dirge as, from somewhere deep within the chamber of my chest, a sharp and steady ache cruelly pushes its way to the surface.

**+.+.+.+**

The days at _Au Chien Pèlerin _bleed together, swiftly forming into a ribbon of backbreaking work and the unfamiliar company of Ilse and her family. Gone are the polished angles of Manhattan, the closetful of soft fabrics and echoes of whispers between art-adorned walls in cavernous modern apartments. I move through each hour in an odd languor, sleeping and eating and working as I wait for the walls of the Lethuillier's _chambre d'hote _to become more familiar.

Each morning is the same: I wake to the chill of dawn and the cold wooden floor beneath my bare feet, dressing myself with mechanical motions and avoiding the sight of my own pale reflection in the antique bedroom mirror. I move through the house, descending the back stairs like a specter in the dawn.

The days are spent following Laurent around the property, moving in and out of the grey stone outbuildings as he acquaints me with the rhythm of the farm. The coveralls he's provided for me smell of manure and sweat and everything that is not the life I've left behind, allowing me to step outside of my own skin to shed the past like an afterthought.

He acts as though I am equal parts a help and a nuisance to him, flippantly introducing me to the five Vigny brothers as a pet of his grandmother's before forbidding them from using their time to flirt with me.

"I speak French, you know," I tell him after the young men disappear to begin their work.

"Perfect. Then I will not have to repeat myself."

There is an easy synchrony between Laurent and the estate; his existence is woven into it as surely and as seamlessly as the warp and weft yarns of a tapestry. He moves with quick, light steps, his rangy limbs and broad shoulders exuding the confidence of one born to the land, his calloused fingers occasionally ceasing their work to pet Sascha the hound, to scratch one of Ilse's goats behind its ears, or to quickly stroke one of the several dozen cats that roam insouciantly about the property.

A few times, I have looked up from my work to catch him watching me, his features furrowed into a thoughtful frown.

This morning, however, he catches me.

"_Bonjour_, little stray," he calls, grinning once he sees me watching him from behind the warped glass of the mud room window. "Come outside and sing for your supper."

**+.+.+.+**

Years before and an ocean away, a brisk breeze dances across the Potomac, whipping impatiently against _Horus'_ sails and pulling my hair into long, wild ribbons around my face. My father frowns as I try to tame the errant locks with my hands.

"Ilse should have put your hair up," he sighs.

"I didn't want it braided."

"Then pull it out of your face so you can see."

"I don't have a hairband."

"Here." He reaches beneath one of the seats, pulling out a battered straw weave hat. "It's your mother's."

"I don't want it."

"Then you won't learn how to sail."

Grudgingly, I take the offered hat, sloppily tucking my hair beneath the band.

"The trick is to know your lines," my father digresses, gesturing to the line clutch. "Do you remember what this one is for?"

"Main sail halyard?"

"No, it's one of the reefing lines. Now answer this one what do we do before we raise the mainsail?"

"Find the wind," I answer.

He gives me a small smile and looks away, pointing us into the breeze.

**+.+.+.+**

At the end of each day, my muscles tremble with fatigue as I struggle to keep up with Laurent's long strides. The only sounds are the panting of the ever-present Sascha and the syncopated rhythm of our footsteps against the dirt lane on our way back to the house. I am exhausted and filthy, but the pangs of my tired body are a welcome distraction from the gnawing ache behind my lungs that I am not ready to acknowledge.

The sun diminishes into a small, brilliant brush of marigold against the deepening indigo sky as the animals of _Au Chien Pèlerin_ quiet and settle. Sturdy brown cows plod to their stalls inside the old stone barn as hens disappear into their roosts. Even the barn cats grow silent, their daytime yowling abandoned for the stealth of nocturnal hunting.

But as the farm's sounds fade into nighttime silence, the inside of _Au Chien Pèlerin_ comes alive, its walls splashed with warm light and the conversations of Ilse's guests. Rich smells of supper permeate the ground floor, and we are all seated around the long dining room table as Caroline makes the necessary introductions. Beside me, Laurent grows animated with the company, sharing stories and laughing at others' anecdotes as Ilse looks on in approval.

I nod and smile when appropriate, pushing away memories of other, more formal parties Edward's brash young profile as he moved through a crowd of his parents' friends; the sight of Tanya Denault's slim, manicured fingers resting lightly on his arm at the Liberty Ball.

What would the Kingmaker say if he could see his daughter clad in dirt- and manure-stained coveralls? What would Edward think if he saw this prim, pretty thing clumsily wielding a pair of Laurent's pruning tools?

The ache intensifies, a canker in my chest, and so I smile and do not think of the men I've left behind.

**+.+.+.+**

My mother's hands are smooth and and clean and cold, her palms like flat stones against my skin as she cradles my cheeks, her full lips curved into a smile as she looks down into my face. She is close enough that I can see the pores beneath her fine powder, the stray hairs that escape from her coif, and the slight flare of her nostrils as we pose. The air smells of perfume and perspiration beneath the late afternoon sun as a photographer named Jamison shoots the Swan family's annual portraits on the back lawn.

Over the clicking of his shutter, I can hear my father from where he stands behind Jamison. His tone is severely professional.

"Who was it?" my mother asks as he disconnects the call.

Click. Click.

"Buchanan's people," he answers, handing the phone off to his aide.

"Mrs. Swan, I'm sorry to interrupt, but if you could face your daughter again…"

She complies, but her eyes are not on me. "What do they want?" she demands from behind her smile.

"He's thinking about '96."

"What did you tell them?"

He ignores her, coming to stand beside us. "Pretty girl," he says kindly, chucking me lightly under the chin. "How are we doing, Jamison?"

"Great, sir," the photographer dutifully answers. "You have a beautiful family. Now, if you two could face me… I'll have you move Isabella to stand in front of you…"

I am placed perfectly in the center, standing up straight and baring my teeth in a smile. Side by side, my parents place a hand on each of my shoulders.

"I hope you're not going to waste your time nursing every GOP evangelical windbag who thinks he has a chance," my mother hisses.

"Renee," my father says quietly, and it is a warning.

Click. Click. Click.

Jamison smiles at me from behind his camera. "Relax your face, Isabella."

"Don't treat it like it's none of my concern, Charles. If I'm going to help you with your precious donors-"

"_Renee_."

Silence.

Several seconds pass in which we remain in place, posed and frozen as the shutter clicks away. I smile and ignore the feel of my mother's hand, smooth and clean and cold, as her fingers tense against my skin.

When the session is over, Jamison shakes my father's hand and tells him once again what a perfect family we are, but there is pity in his eyes as he says goodbye.

**+.+.+.+**

"Five hectares and a thousand trees," Laurent informs me proudly. Excitement crackles around him as we walk through the shadows of the orchard rows, the bare winter branches stretch above us, pregnant with the promise of a coming harvest. "Four kinds of apples, though we use only the bittersweet and acidic for the calvados."

"What are calvados?"

"Apple brandy. It is our livelihood."

"How?"

"Tourists," he shrugs. "Do you know the history of this village?"

"A bit."

"Then you know of its importance in the Second World War. The invasion, John Steele, the church parachute…" He rolls his eyes at my shrug. "You will find out soon enough, I suppose. Tourists come, they see they farm, tour the orchards, taste our calvados, and then go home to order more."

"Where do you make it?"

"The distillery is up there, to the north of us. We age it there as well. We will hire more workers to help us in the spring, but for now…" he gestures around us. "There are only a few of us."

I look around and frown; the stately symmetry of the tree lanes is offset by the presence of several grazing cows. "A few of us, including the livestock?"

"Yes cows, or goats. They gobble down worm-filled fruit as soon as it hits the ground. Now, see this?" He reaches up to grab one of the central tree limbs. "The trunk _Le leader centrale_. When we prune, we must leave that branch to be the highest so that it will keep the shape of the tree."

"What do we prune them with?"

He walks around to the back of the truck. "For now, you will use this." He produces something resembling a cross between a weed-eater and a large scythe. "_Faites gaffe_," he says, slapping my hand away as I reach for it. "You will kill us both if you do not wait to learn."

I will not admit that my pride stings more than the skin on my hand. "I might learn faster if you stopped treating me like a child."

"You are a child," he laughs, shouldering the pruning tool as he walks toward one of the trees.

"Don't fucking laugh at me," I snap.

"Why not?" Laurent asks, stopping in his tracks and turning to face me.

"It's rude."

"It is not rude if you are being funny."

I glare at him, my jaw clenching of its own volition.

"Begin then," he says with a sigh. "I will wait."

"Wait for what?" I demand.

"You are going to do… what is it called a tantrum. Like a little child." He waves his hand dismissively in my direction. "I will wait until you are done."

"Fuck you," I spit.

But he only nods, gesturing toward the trees behind him. "Good. Come, now there is work to do."

My humiliation simmers, a burning rock in my gut at his nonchalance. I remember the long-gone luxury of rousing Edward's anger, watching as his aggravation unfurled itself in red banners beneath his cheekbones and the clenching of his fists. I was a goddess then, holding his rage in the palm of my hand as our pulses galloped to the rhythm of our ragged breathing.

And now, I am a farmhand with only the detachment of an insolent French orchardist for company.

Where has the power of Ammut the Destroyer gone to? I wonder. Where is Athena the Huntress?

"_Isabella_," Laurent calls again. "You may pout, or you may work, but you cannot learn if you do not watch. Now come, and give me your angry looks later."

Weak, something inside me hisses indignantly as the anger breaks, falling away from the empty spaces in my chest as I grasp at my pique, willing it to return as my mind hisses, Do something, do something! This isn't who you are.

But both the fire and the ice are gone now, and the power that once lived at my fingertips sits at my feet like a dead, dull stone, its heat faded to a faraway place.

Laurent waits as I stand motionless under barren boughs of the orchard trees, scrutinizing my features with an expectant expression. I finally meet his gaze, and he cocks a brow in an unspoken question.

With a weary sigh, I go to him.

**+.+.+.+**

"Tell me more about your mother," Dr. Cope suggests.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Have you ever met my mother?"

"That's irrelevant."

"You have met her. Well then, I'll tell you what I'm sure you already know: she's perfect. She's the perfect wife. The perfect hostess. The perfect political asset."

"The perfect mother?"

I smile, and my flat voice feels like a scream as I reply, "Of course."

**+.+.+.+**

"You are making her nervous," Laurent mutters impatiently.

"You're making _me_ nervous," I snap, glaring into the beady eyes of the hen before me.

"She will not peck you unless she is afraid. She will not be afraid unless you continue to hover over her with your hand stretched into… how do you say in English, _griffe_?"

I do not tell him that the word he is looking for is 'claw.'

"I only offered to help with the orchard, you know."

He shrugs. "We work where we are needed."

"I hate chickens."

"And yet, here you are."

In the nesting box before me, the fat, brown and white hen named Mathilde eyes me suspiciously. I begin to reach beneath her again, flinching again as she moves to strike.

"Omi has spoken of you," he sighs dramatically. "Brave Little Isabella. How annoying that she has grown up to be bested by a common laying hen."

Scowling, I hesitate for only a moment before quickly reaching beneath the indignant Mathilde. My fingers close around the warm, smooth surface of the egg, and I withdraw my hand.

"Ouch," I growl, feeling another sharp peck on my wrist as I pull free.

Laurent grins down at me. "Perfect. Now do the rest of them."

**+.+.+.+**

In two days, Paul Strickland will knock on my door, and I will stare at the shiny American flag pin on his lapel as he tells me that my mother is dead. But I do not know that now, because the future is only a shadow on the horizon as Edward's chest is pressed to mine, his fingers gripping my shoulders as he paints a litany of the profane onto my skin with every panted breath. I like him like this, desperate and needy and rough and I lift up to meet him, tightening, pulsing, pulling him closer and deeper-

He stops.

Cursing, he moves back onto his knees, leaving me cold before lifting me up, pressing me to him as he begins again this time with slow, languid movements.

"Faster."

He shakes his head. "I'm too close."

"You're touching me like I'm a goddamn china doll. I'm not breakable."

His hands reach, grab, fingers clenching around my hips and yanking me until my back is flush with the front of him. The sheets bunch as he pulls us back to the center of the bed, shoving me down before him and I am prone, biting down on my sheets as he pulls my hips up until my cunt is exposed, naked and wet and wanting. His breathing is ragged and fast and he may be the one crouched behind and above but a glow like victory races through my veins like quicksilver while he's only a sliver of control away from fucking me like an animal.

"Just… fuck, be easy for once," he groans, sliding against me.

"Don't go slow."

He complies, shoving into me hard, hard, hard enough to hurt but it's good, it's the best and I want more. Suddenly I'm moving through the deep, through the dark, through a red haze and an old maze that unfurls like a wrinkled banner and there is no monster here, no blood or victory, there's nothing but release and freedom and up, up, up until I breach the surface of a faraway sun, gasping as I come. The sound is ugly and sharp.

And then I am limp, flat on my stomach, still breathless as he moves behind me in a painful, reckless rhythm. "You're not breakable," he says, over and over and over.

I let him fuck me like a savage until he believes it.

**+.+.+.+**

Ilse sits with me at the small kitchen table, rubbing salve from an old tin onto my chapped and blistered hands. "Laurent says you have been working as hard as the Vigny boys."

"He doesn't give me much of a choice."

"You do not have to do this, Isabella."

I shrug, wincing at the tightness of the muscles in my shoulder and neck.

"Well, we must find you some gloves, at least."

"Laurent said I have to let the skin harden."

"_Quoi!_He forgets himself. You may work like a farmer, but you are not one."

"My fingers are starting to callous."

"I will not let you go back home with the hands of an old man. You will use a pair of mine."

I freeze at her casual mention of home.

"Why is the house so quiet?" I ask, changing the subject. "I thought Caroline said all the rooms are booked."

"They are. The quiet it is a rule for our guests. We are loud at supper, and quiet during the day."

"Why?"

"Among other things, it allows the heart time to catch up to the body."

"That's… sentimental."

"Not sentimental. Practical."

"I don't understand."

She eyes me thoughtfully. "No," she says slowly. "Perhaps you do not. But I think soon you will. It is why I have told Laurent that he must let you work quietly."

"He doesn't."

She laughs. "I suppose I am not surprised. He has always hated being told what to do."

"I've noticed."

"Be patient with him, though. He is a kind person, and he seems to like your company."

"He and his mother both treat me like a child."

"Laurent still enjoys annoying pretty girls. And Caroline… I cannot speak for her. Perhaps you remind her of her own children smart, and stubborn. You were a very single-minded young girl at times. It is so odd to see you now," she continues wistfully. "Odd in a delightful way, you must understand… there are still traces of that stubborn little girl, of course, but then there are other times that I see your mother so clearly."

"I've been told I favor my father."

"You have your father's coloring, his eyes and hair, but your features this," she continues, lightly tapping my nose. "It is your mother's nose, how it turns up just slightly, perfectly. And the shape of your eyes and mouth even the little point in your eyebrows. It is all Renee."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"You are both beautiful women, Isabella. Your mother did what she could."

"I thought you despised my mother."

"I did not particularly like her, it is true. But she is a sad woman, not an evil one."

A mirthless laugh flies from my mouth like a shot. "She isn't anything, now. She's dead."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

"I did not know," Ilse sighs after a moment. "I am sorry."

I shrug.

"When did this happen?"

"Three weeks ago."

Her frown deepens. "Is that the reason you ran away?"

"It's part of the reason." Flashes of the old world race through my mind in an instant, images of Edward and leatherbound journals and frozen family portraits. "I needed to leave, and I left."

"How simple."

"Yes."

"Will you go back?"

"I don't know. I don't… I need to feel like myself again before I do."

Across the table from me, Ilse is perfectly still. I study the salve on my fingers as the quiet spans countless seconds.

"Perhaps it would help if you would try to understand your mother."

"Ilse," I scoff.

"What she did was not right, but I think with time and-"

"My mother's choices were her own," I interrupt coldly. "I'm not a historian, I'm not a psychologist, and I can't rewrite the past."

"But can you ever forgive her?"

"Doubtful."

She smiles sadly. "Perhaps you have more in common with Caroline than you think."

There is a large crash before I can process her words, the kitchen door opening with a burst as Laurent strides inside, smelling of the barn.

"Here you are," he exclaims as his eyes land on me. "What are you doing?"

"Her fingers are chapped," Ilse informs him reproachfully. "You have not given her gloves."

"Nonsense. Look at her hands they are just beginning to look respectable."

"You are working her too hard," she argues.

"It's fine, Ilse."

Laurent turns to me, scrutinizing my face. "Perhaps _Omi_ is right. You look like shit."

"Laurent!"

He rolls his eyes. "I am agreeing with you, _Omi_. Very well, then. Isabella, go rest."

"I'm not tired."

"Go," he insists.

"You were going to show me how to compost."

He dismisses me with a flippant wave of his hand. "Matthieu will do it."

"I'm not going to sleep."

"Then find something else to do. Happy, _Omi_?"

Ilse smiles. "You will feel better after resting, Isabella."

"Yes," Laurent agrees. "And you will need it we are going into the village tonight."

"Why?"

"It will be a surprise," he offers with a wink.

"I don't like surprises."

"You will love it."

"Will I?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you will not. Either way, we will leave after supper."

**+.+.+.+**

Heavy snow blankets Dartmouth's stately buildings, gilding each surface with the quiet of winter. In front of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon house, the decades-old trees occasionally snap and groan at the added weight to their branches. The graceful beauty of the property, however, belies the raucous activities that happen within.

"Hey you."

I look away from the landscape outside the window to the man beside me. Generically handsome, with a clean shirt and speech that isn't too badly slurred; he isn't drunk, not yet, but he will be soon.

"Hello."

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I'm Patrick Donnelly. You having fun?"

"Not really."

He frowns. "Oh. Sorry?"

"Don't be. I didn't expect to."

"Where's your date?"

"I'm here alone."

His eyes brighten. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Oh," he says again.

All play and no work, I think, makes Jack a bumbling, fumbling idiot.

"You know, your father's a hero of mine," Patrick informs me with a smile, blissfully unaware of my disdain.

"Is he?"

"Oh yeah. He's a big deal around here."

"So I've heard."

"Were you at the unveiling yesterday?"

"I was."

"What'd your dad think of the portrait?"

"He loved it," I answer coolly, remembering the applause of the crowd, the lights of the small stage, the self-satisfied gleam in my father's eyes as his former Sigma brothers now prominent faculty members unveiled the large, pompous-looking likeness of the Kingmaker.

The same portrait now hangs above the fireplace behind us.

"Cool," Patrick enthuses, taking another large swallow of his drink.

Yes, I think dryly. _Cool_.

Patrick stays by my side for most of the evening, leaving only to refill his red Solo cup and coming back to continue telling me about his classes, his parents, his hopes and dreams. I nod and insert the occasional hum as the party rages on around us, pausing to smile stiffly for acquaintances as they drunkenly wield their camera phones.

"So… you don't drink, huh?" Patrick slurs a little over an hour later, frowning down into his empty cup.

"Not usually, no."

"Are you religious?"

I smile, feeling the frozen, painted stare of Charles Swan boring into my neck. "Walk me home."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"I'm tired. I'd like to go home now, and I'd like you to walk me there."

And then he is an eager puppy, all smiles and helpful hands as he offers to fetch my jacket from the coat closet.

I fuck him, fast, on the floor by a row of wet rain boots, covering his mouth with one hand in an attempt to stifle his groans. The room smells of sweat and feet and the dampness of winter, and I am too aware of the loud conversations on the other side of the door, the wadded condom wrapper still clutched inside my hand, and the desperate, pathetic way he holds onto my hips as I ride him.

"Let me go," I snap, batting his hands away. "I know how to fuck you."

My words push him over the edge; he thrusts erratically up, up, up before twitching inside me as he expels a long, low sigh. I feel a wave of triumph in spite of my annoyance as he comes, clueless and sated, brought low for a quickie in a coat closet.

Patrick Donnelly is still lying on the floor, grinning foolishly at me as I straighten my skirt and turn to leave, sober as ever.

"Can I call you?" he asks me breathlessly, his Brooks Brothers trousers pulled down to his knees. His dick is almost comically flaccid against his thigh, the used condom leaking onto his skin. Here is the perfect Sigma Alpha, a future captain of industry, a leader of tomorrow.

"Of course not," I calmly reply. "Goodnight."

**+.+.+.+**

After supper, I climb into the cab of an old white pickup truck with a sign on the door proclaiming it to be the property of Lethuillier Orchards.

"Where are we going?" I ask Laurent again.

"I will give you a hint: it involves drinking."

"I don't usually drink."

"Then I do not think you will enjoy our destination."

Five minutes later, I am squeezed between Laurent and two of the Vigny boys as Denys, the largest of the brothers, jumps into the bed of the truck. My left thigh is pressed intimately against warm line of Laurent's leg. As he maneuvers the truck down the lane, I realize that I can smell the clean, crisp scent of his soap.

"Etienne, _détends-toi_," Laurent teases, smirking as Etienne Vigny nervously attempts to sit on my right without touching my leg. "She is one of us now, eh?"

Etienne blushes, offering me a shy smile.

I am silent for the short ride, my mind occupied with deciphering the regional patois that colors their rapid-fire french.

"We are here," Laurent soon announces, nodding to a small corner storefront with _Le Neptune Bar _emblazoned across the entrance canopy. From within the stone building, I can hear the strains of a lively violin.

"I have shown you how to work as we work," he continues as the Vigny boys pass us to go inside. "Now I will show you how to drink as we drink." Seeing my expression, he frowns. "What is wrong?"

"I don't drink."

"You are too young to be so severe, Isabella. Enjoy your life come in and tell the world to go away for a little while."

"One drink," I concede.

**+.+.+.+**

"'There is no knowledge that is not power, my father quotes from behind a stately-looking podium.

It's a line by Ralph Waldo Emerson that he uses in every speech, innocuous enough until it is imbued with my father's ambition.

Every word, every move, every look, each handshake and smile and grimace matters. Everything is a move, the product of strategy.

It is exhausting.

It is safe.

**+.+.+.+**

Laurent buys me a drink.

"Calvados," he says, handing me my glass as we stand at the bar. I sip the amber liquid, blinking rapidly as the brandy burns down my throat as Laurent watches. "Good?"

I nod, taking another sip. And another.

The snifter empties faster than I expect it to. I look up in time to catch Laurent's smirk as he watches my expression. "One more?"

"One more."

**+.+.+.+**

"Leave your mother alone for a little while," Ilse cautions me, gently leading me toward the stairs that would carry me away from the spectacle of my mother's grief, she is too late, too late because the music stops and my mother appears, slurring my name and pulling me into the drawing room to the dulcet tones of Edith Piaf.

"Come in and sit, Isabella," she says, pushing me toward the sofa. She is beautiful, svelte and elegant in her red cocktail dress as she puts me in my place, a spectator to witness the implosion of her universe.

"_Un jour cet air me rendra folle_

_Cent fois j'ai voulu dire pourquoi_

_Mais il m'a coupé la parole_

_Il parle toujours avant moi_

_Et sa voix couvre ma voix…"_

"Men only want one thing," she tells me, her eyes blank as she stares at the portrait of her and my father featured prominently above the fireplace, her vodka loosening her tongue as she waxes on bitterly about the state of men and love.

"And now look where I am," she sighs, moments before declaring herself ruined and closing her eyes, her brilliance fading into the melancholy glimmer of a dying star.

**+.+.+.+**

"One more," I tell the bartender, reveling in the warmth that the brandy has spread through my limbs as I perch on an old barstool. From the table he shares with the Vigny boys a few yards away, I can feel Laurent's eyes boring into my back.

The small band at the other end of the room is making enough noise for the patrons around me to raise their voices as they engage in conversation with one another, the music and laughter blending into a cacophony of village networking.

Laurent appears suddenly at my side. "How many have you had?" he asks lightly.

"Two."

"Gilles," he calls to the bartender. "How many for her?"

Gilles shoots me a cautious glance before looking back to Laurent and holding up four fingers.

"Fuck both of you," I mutter.

He laughs. "Come sit with us again."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You keep starting drinking songs. It's vulgar. It's I hiccup.-embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? You were the only one not singing."

"I don't like them."

"Okay, no more drinking songs. Come sit."

His large hand almost spans the width of my lower back as he guides me to a seat. "I am sorry that I am not nicer," I tell him over my shoulder, hating the slur of my words.

"Who wants you nicer?" he laughs, pulling out a chair for me as we arrive at the table. "Matthieu, Denys _une autre chanson._"

"You said no more drinking songs," I snap.

But Laurent only laughs at me, standing on our table to begin the opening lines of _La Boiteuse_.

**+.+.+.+**

"Tell me what it means," I demand with a smile, trailing my index finger down Edward's midline. His even breathing catches as I move past his navel.

"What what means?"

"The words you scratched into your Bösendorfer. Don't play dumb."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing my finger before it can move any lower. "Maybe I am dumb. Maybe you fucked me stupid."

"I didn't fuck away your memory." I roll until I am straddling his hips, my breasts pressed against his torso and my mouth on the poetic line of his collarbone. "Tell me," I insist.

He scowls. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because," I reply, kissing down his chest as I rub my wetness against his semi-erect cock. "I'm curious."

"Quid pro quo, then. Tell me something about you.""Haven't we've done this already?"

"Tell me something _else_."

With my lips pressed to his chest, he cannot see my scowl. "I asked first."

"And I don't want to talk about it."

Annoyed, I sit up. "You're being rather difficult tonight." I lift myself, hovering above his erection. He flinches, shuddering as I drag my nail up the underside of his cock before taking him into my hand, lining him up against me. "Why won't you give me what I want?"

"Maybe I'm tired of always giving you what you want."

"Apparently not," I sigh, sliding down until he is halfway in.

"Someday," he says roughly, glaring down at where he disappears inside me, "I'm going to stop being so nice to you."

"Oh, do tell."

"I mean it. You keep pushing- god-"

I tighten and slide further down, taking him in until there's nothing left, smiling as his eyes fall shut.

"Not today," I muse mockingly.

"Not today," he affirms, and surrenders once again.

I am still sore from him, my muscles burning with fatigue as our hips crash together in a frenzy of friction and heat. His hungry fingers clutch at my flesh and I smirk, fucking him slow and lazy until we both forget the promise of someday still lingering above us.

**+.+.+.+**

I walk, basking in the bite of the wind as I stare at the sea. The drunken singing of Laurent and his companions echoes from somewhere behind me, but my thoughts are occupied by another man, one with an arrogant laugh and a sharp smile and hair the color of an old penny.

"Isabella!"

I turn to find Laurent loping toward me, barefoot in the cold sand.

"What do you think?" he asks breathlessly, coming to my side to face the sea.

"It's too dark to see anything."

"Then trust me when I tell you that it is beautiful."

I nod, languorous with the remaining effects of the brandy. "Where are the Vignys?"

"Oh."

He pauses awkwardly, staring out into the distance above the ocean. "I am glad you came with us tonight."

"How kind of you to bear the company of Ilse's stray," I retort.

He throws his head back and laughs, and my eyes take in the tanned, lean lines of his neck.

"A stray that has not lost her claws, I see."

"Never."

"How are your hands?"

"They're fine. I'll wear gloves tomorrow."

He nods. "You will need them to finish the composting. If you want to." He sees my perplexed frown and laughs. "_Omi_ does not want me working you to death. I am trying to be nice."

"I said I would work, and I will."

"Why?"

"'Why?'"

"Why are you here, Isabella? Why does a wealthy American girl come to France to work as a farmhand?"

"It's not that simple."

"May I tell you something?" he asks suddenly.

I shrug. "If you want to."

"Are you familiar with Weißensee?"

"Excuse me?"

"Of course you are not. But perhaps Pankow? Or East Berlin?"

"I've heard of them," I answer warily.

"Americans love to talk about East Berlin and Reagan. They show footage of the Berlin Wall falling and people celebrating, honking horns and waving flags and watching David Hasselhoff dance in a leather jacket."

"And?"

"Did you know it took the DDR men one night to build the Wall? It ran through the city center, right in front of my grandmother's front door on the Bernauer Strasse. _Omi_ took her sisters and my mother and ran across before it was finished, before the border guards could detain them. Her husband was shot crossing two days later."

"I didn't know that."

"She met and married my grandfather and came here with my mother a few years later. She doesn't like to speak of it, of course."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I thought you might care. You are not the only one who has felt pain, Isabella. There is more than one way to move on."

Bitterness wells up in my throat, filling my mouth with acid and spilling out like a poisonous spring. "Then I wish to god you would tell me how," I exclaim harshly. "Since you're the expert."

"Not an expert," he corrects. "Just a friend."

"Friends," I scoff. "We're not friends."

"Of course we are. I like you. I even like your claws." He moves closer to me, standing so that I can feel the heat of him against my arm. "You are beautiful as well that helps."

His words sink in, blending with the brandy and causing a warmth to spread across my skin. "Laurent…"

"Little stray," he murmurs with a smile, his large hand cupping my jaw, pulling my face toward his as he bends toward me. His lips are cold and dry and chapped by the sun and the wind. It has only been weeks, but the contact is foreign.

The ache in my chest sharpens, and I am suddenly angry that it is even there at all.

I lift my arms, threading them around Laurent's neck to pull him closer. He makes a noise that sounds like approval, and when he opens his mouth, I do the same.

It all comes back, my aching muscles remembering how to pull and grab and stroke and pet, my skin thrilling at the feel of his fingers. This is what I can do. This is what I've mastered.

We are sloppy, languorous with booze and fatigue, and he does not resist when I pull him down to the sand to sit astride him.

He pulls me down to kiss me again, the weight of his hands slowly moving across my shoulders, down my back to cup my ass. I can feel him against me, his erection growing harder between my legs. My hips begin to rub against him in a frantic rhythm.

With a grunt, he rolls us over, his lips moving down my neck and I buck my hips desperately, seeking contact but he doesn't cooperate, doesn't settle his hips against me and I growl in frustration.

His fingers are fast, trailing down the front of me, unfastening my jeans and slipping beneath the waistband. My fingers dig into his scalp as he strokes me.

"Okay?" he asks, and I nod and tell him not to stop.

Large fingers rub small circles, and I cannot get enough, I cannot stop or my chest may burst from the pain.

And then his fingers move lower, and I bite at his lips as he slips two inside of me, my eyes clenched shut as I move against him, closer and closer and closer-

"Laurent! _Qu'est-ce tu fais_?"

Cursing, Laurent stiffens, pulling his fingers away from me as the laughter of Denys and Matthieu comes closer.

"_Va chier_!" he calls back. "Go away."

They keep their distance, remaining several yards away, but they are close enough for me to see the gestures they make for Laurent's benefit.

"We can go back to the house," Laurent says easily, laughing as Denys pretends to fellate a piece of driftwood.

"Just tell them to leave."

"No, it is just as well. I do not have anything with me."

I fall back to the sand with a groan of frustration.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I open my eyes to look at him, the concerned expression etched across his strong features, the relaxed lines of his posture. There is nothing heavy about him, nothing dark or hurt or angry. With the exception of his erection, he looks as if we had just been interrupted in the middle of a handshake.

"I'd like to be alone," I say flatly.

I can see him in my periphery as he stares at my profile. "I will tell you when we are leaving," he says after a moment, standing to his feet. He adjusts himself before walking down the beach to the raucous shouting of Denys and Matthieu.

I watch him go, his broad back disappearing into the darkness.

My chest is throbbing, desperate and angry and unsatisfied.

"One of me," a street bum once declared, his eyes bright with insanity as he laughed at the young girl clinging to Ilse's hand. "One of the cold ones. Another one of me. Passion! Passion! You'll die for your passion!"

I watched a young man take a girl in a garden maze, thought him an elegant beast to be brought low, grasped for my triumph at the price of his pride, plucked his plumage to adorn my own wings, chilled him with my touch even as I sought to make him burn.

"I did love you," Edward told me before walking away, and the slump of his shoulders screamed defeat.

Defeat because I defeated him.

I won, I tell myself with a bitter laugh.

I _won_.

But by the side of a foreign sea, the specter of Edward chases away the warmth of another man's touch.

The cold one. The luckiest unlucky passionate one.

He haunts me still.

A sharp squall rips across the water and onto the beach, biting through my coat and I shiver and shake as I realize: pain or not, I'll never be anything but hungry for him.

And trembling, I burn.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


	24. Edges & Echoes

**A/N below.**

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

It was not mystery or grief,

Nor the wise will of fate –

It was the impression of strife,

Our meetings always left behind.

From dawn I'd anticipate

The moment when you'd appear,

Feeling faint stabbing pains

All along my folded arms.

And with dry fingers I'd crumple

The table's chequered cloth…

I knew then, already,

How small this earth truly is.

"_The Echo"_

[Anna Akhmatova]

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I remember tales of Horus, my father's voice regaling my young ears from across the cockpit of the sailboat with stories of the Egyptian falcon god.

Horus the bird of prey, the sky god with the sun as his right eye and the moon as his left. Always constant, never changing and utterly above it all as he soared across the cosmos in a pattern as immutable as his unblinking stare. I listened to these stories, memorized them like scripture and years passed before I realized that every word my father ever gave me was a prescription for power.

I came to know Horus the Great, Ammut the Devourer and others like them while other girls played with dolls and heard of love and fairytales.

And then we all grew, little girls becoming a new, strange type of creature with blossoming breasts and coy smiles and the sweet space between our thighs that made some of us think of love and harmony while I waited, feeling the new edges and curves of my body the way a warrior fingers a foreign blade.

Is it any wonder I yearned for the liberty of absolute power? It was always a game - a pursuit of clawing and fucking and freedom.

Freedom above all else.

And then I found an opponent who played the game better: a man with sun-and-moon eyes that saw too much.

So I flew.

Soaring above the storm, ascending into the sky until the world was too small to matter. Landing in a place of quiet, a place where no one knew how sharp and cruel the wilds of desperation could be. And yet, even here my fingers still itch to unfurl the sails of my father's boat, a slave to the wind alone, weightless and hopeless and utterly human.

**+.+.+.+**

Laurent does not speak of the drunken night we spent on the beach. Occasionally, I watch his hands whittling a piece of wood, ruffling Sascha's fur, or wielding his pruning shears and I remember the calluses of his fingers as they'd scraped against me. For a moment, he sought my pleasure, and the memory is an odd sort of power.

But dreams of any sort of power fade more every morning in these last breaths of winter, and I feel myself disappearing into the sweat and aching muscles that come with working the idylls of Ilse's land. I dig and cut and haul and scrape and burn until there is nothing but the work in front of me, until I am only the sum of what my hands can do.

Today is no different, and I revel in the exhaustion of my body as I lean against the pasture fence.

"You should rest," Laurent suggests, coming to lean beside me. He says this often, letting me be when I ignore him; the work does not go away, and the Vigny boys can only do so much.

"Look at Odette," he says suddenly, pointing to where a brown and white heifer standing in the corner of the pasture, apart from the rest of the herd. "Have you seen her do that before?"

"Do what?"

"Stand so far away from the rest of them. Look at the way her tail lifts." He frowns. "She will be calving tonight."

I study him as he looks over the pasture. He is a man formed of his native soil, of the blood of these beasts and the turn of the orchard seasons and I feel a twinge of envy for the confidence with which he fits into his surroundings.

My own world feels much farther than an ocean away. I'm separated now from the rumble and growl of New York by long weeks and miles, and there is a pulsing in my chest ever-present — the pull of footprints I still long to leave.

**+.+.+.+**

"You have mail," Caroline informs me, offering me the envelope with the hauteur of an aggrieved queen.

Something inside of me tightens, possibility and anticipation merging into a heady cocktail as I consider who would have taken the trouble to send something to me in the middle of Normandy… and I am instantly subdued as I recognize the letterhead of my father's consulting firm.

Inside, there is only a sheet of paper listing dates, locations, hotels and events. A few handwritten sentences have been scrawled within the margins.

_FYI_, it reads. _You may get a visitor soon. - Paul_

I skim over the rest of the page once more, recognizing now that Paul Strickland has sent me my father's travel itinerary for the coming months. One event in particular catches my eye.

_International Initiative for Promoting Political Economy_

_Hotel Lancaster _

_Paris_

I note the corresponding date. My father will be in France in less than three weeks' time.

**+.+.+.+**

Though Laurent remains silent on the subject of our drunken indiscretions that night on the beach, his curiosity about my past only seems to grow stronger.

"_Omi_ says you ran away because of your mother died unexpectedly," he says one morning, breaking a tired silence as we ride across the Lethullier's land on the way to the house for lunch.

"Yes," I answer shortly.

"Is that the only reason you left?"

I sigh. The work here has borne down on my bones, long weeks of labor settling into sore muscles like a canker. My skin feels almost feverish with fatigue.

"She thinks there is a man in your past," he continues when I do not answer. "What was his name?"

"Why?"

"I am asking because—"

"You're asking because you want me to start telling you things. Now, you want to know his name. Then you'll want to know what he was like, how long I knew him, how he was in bed."

He laughs, unfazed by the flatness of my voice. "Alright, then. How was he in bed?"

"He made me come," I retort. "Which is more than I can say for you."

The sudden allusion to our time on the beach brings him up short, his mouth settling into a grim line. The rumble of the old truck engine fills the silence as the farmhouse comes closer. "It is a good thing we are friends," he observes after a moment. "You are very careless with your claws."

"You said you liked my claws."

"I would like them better if you would occasionally keep them sheathed."

I wouldn't know how, I want to reply. Instead, I lean my forehead against the cool of the window, aching all over.

We do not speak again before joining with the Vignys and a few other laborers for lunch in Ilse's kitchen. I sit silent amidst the steady chatter of voices, my head pounding.

"_Liebchen_," Ilse says, frowning at my untouched plate. "You are unwell?"

"No."

"You have not eaten."

"I'm fine."

"You look ill," she insists. "Laurent-"

"The work is too much," he says with a shrug, speaking around the food in his mouth. "She is like a cat who thinks it is a horse."

"I told you to be careful with her."

He rolls his eyes. "_You_ try ordering her around."

"I'm fine—" I insist, annoyed at being discussed like a petulant child, but Ilse's hand is on my forehead.

"Bed," she says sternly. "I will bring you soup, and books if you'd like them."

Further protestations are ignored; she glares at me when I do not move.

It is easier not to fight. I go upstairs and sink into the bed, where the weight of my heavy limbs sinks me into oblivion.

**+.+.+.+**

I am seven years old, and my feet reach just past the center of the mattress of the large bed in the middle of my room.

"How is she?" my father asks.

"The fever will break soon," Ilse answers.

"We're expected—"

"You are attending the benefit," Ilse interrupts coolly. "I remember."

"We'll just be at the D'Agostinos down the road."

Her reply is unintelligible, and then footsteps fade, leaving only Ilse's soft, half-sung German.

"_Weißt du, wieviel Mücken spielen_

_in der heißen Sonnenglut?_

_Wie viel Fische auch sich kühlen_

_in der hellen Wasserflut_?"

**+.+.+.+**

I wake from my nap to feel a feverish heat dancing through my body, biting at my limbs until my teeth chatter.

"_Liebchen_," Ilse says quietly. Her hand is cool and dry against my cheek. "Can you eat?"

Sitting up feels like an impossibility, and I shake my head.

"You need water. Open."

I feel something cool against my mouth. I purse my lips around the straw and drink, relieved as the liquid runs over my tongue.

"Ilse," I whisper, sinking back into the pillow as sleep comes again. "Sing me something."

But all I can hear is her sad sigh, and then everything here is gone for a little while, disappearing into a world inside which neither time nor fever can touch.

Sated and sweaty, Jacob Black pulls me down to his naked chest, ignoring my stiff limbs as his mouth seeks mine. He kisses my stone lips gently, moves his fingers through my tangled hair and whispers things against my skin like a confessor kissing his rosary.

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of this," he breathes, intertwining our hands and I turn my head to the side, catch my breath and stare at the gleaming surface of his wedding band between us, a cold, sacred thing.

I know he is lying before he does, and I leave the hotel smelling of him and remembering that I hate sacred things — their shiny surfaces suspended too high, too bright and unblemished and pure. It's safer to pull the icons down to earth, burn the altar, barter the ashes.

Later, Jacob will see what I am and know what I've taken, and he'll hate me and spit on this memory. And then I will watch him go, my smile bright beneath a mask of sacred soot as I carry my kindling to the temple of another.

Cold, my mother called me, and I feel it for the first time, daggers of pain stabbing through the ice, pulsing ever-present.

And now It is the first time we've spoken in New York, and Edward is drunk.

"You remind me of a girl I knew back home," he slurs, smiling as he leans into me from his chair. I smile back.

"Do I?"

And he nods, tells me I'm lovely and asks me to follow him.

"Where?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Anywhere. The bathroom. My car. Anywhere."

I hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. "And what would we do there?"

"I'd—we'd do—I'd fuck you, Bella."

"Would you?"

"Mmhm," he mumbles against my neck.

"I can't hear you," I tell him as his lips move against my skin. He pulls back, repeats himself.

"I could eat you up," he says.

He will. And, silly thing that I am, I will let him.

But now his face fades into a pale winter sky, and I am frozen, mounted upon a pedestal and flanked by the silent figures of Ammut and Artemis as time crawls by, growing moss and gathering bitter winds as I long for a man of unforgiving angles beneath a tangle of penny-colored hair.

Freedom, freedom, but am I nothing more than a motionless god, governed by the untractable laws of my own world and nature?

This is the way it must be, Artemis sighs in the language of the cold.

Forget him, Ammut adds with disdain.

But something within rebels against both of them — they've betrayed me, urging me to liberation and leading me here, a slave to the spot in which I stand, the search for freedom culminated in lifeless stone.

And so I stay, stiff and still on a pedestal among rows and rows of barren, snow-covered trees that stretch across the sloping hills and end at a soundless sea. I loom over the landscape, a cold and terrible thing.

On the ground below, a woodsman trudges through the orchard rows, axe in hand. He comes to a stop beside me and there is a flash of heat as he runs his hand across my granite foot, his lips whistling a familiar tune before he heaves his axe into my side.

_Padam... padam... padam..._

_Il arrive en courant derrière moi_

_Padam... padam... padam... _

Blood stains the snow as he cuts, and the pain is a fever running through me, its flames crawling into every dead and dormant place, twisting my heart like a sponge as I writhe inside the silent cage of my form, the inside of my skull echoing with the sound of my own screams.

With a stroke, and another stroke, I am felled.

The cold earth embraces me like a lover, the snow melting against the fire of my flesh as I lay prone, helpless on the ground with only the drip! drop! of snow from budding branches, falling like tears upon my upturned face.

Edward looms above me, bloody axe in hand. His penny-colored hair is a mess.

"You're crying," he observes. "But it is only the thaw, and you're a fool to fight it."

And then I am lost inside a wilderness of blind passion - darkness and fog, and I run through the mist, tearing through the moors of a nether world like a dumb beast, mouth agape to catch the wind and teeth bared for the kill.

My heart pounds to a simple rhythm: conquer, conquer, conquer and the quicksilver rush of blood sings loudly, arrogant and sure through unbound limbs. I am a god with an insatiable hunger as ancient as the song in my bones.

And then something changes: footsteps, gaining. A growl - there is something behind me.

The chase turns and the wet muscle in my chest pounds harder, screaming for escape and I run until the heat of the other's breath is on my back, his fingers gripping my flesh as foreign limbs cage me as I thrash, baring the tender white flesh of my neck but there is no bite, no predator or prey. There is only possession, a power demanding a submission that rankles every inch of me. Escape, my mind screams.

But there is none.

Suspended on a thread of consciousness, I continue to fight. When I finally collapse into the altar of my pursuer's arms, it is with the weary obeisance of a captive slave.

"_Under her dark veil she wrung her hands. 'Why are you so pale today?'" _Akhmatova wrote, and now her words scrape against the walls of my consciousness.

"_Because I made him drink of stinging grief _

_Until he got drunk on it._

_How can I forget? He staggered out, _

_His mouth twisted in agony._

_I ran down not touching the banister _

_And caught up with him at the gate._

_I cried 'A joke!_

_That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'_

_He smiled calmly and grimly_

_And told me, 'Don't stand here in the wind.'"_

When I open my eyes again, I am alone in my bed at _Au Chien Pèlerin_.

There is water and a pile of books on the bedstand.

And ghosts in the ceiling, dancing to _Padam, Padam_.

I smile up at them, the skin of my dry lips splitting as I sink back into the darkness.

**+.+.+.+**

All fevers break, as most passions fade.

The angry froth and foam of my mind settles as the day dawns, sunlight cutting over the horizon like a blade against my eyes as I try to open them.

I am tired, and weak, and sick, and something has broken.

Something has changed.

_Run_, something whispers urgently. But my limbs are too heavy, my breath too shallow.

And here, undistracted by work or drink or reading, I am a hostage to the memory of the man I left behind.

**+.+.+.+**

Laurent comes in after lunch, wrinkling his nose at the room's stale smell.

"You are sleeping the rest of winter away," he informs me.

My throat burns when I speak. "It's only been two days."

"Yes, but you've missed the first bloom of the season," he announces proudly, showing me the small blossom in his hand. He folds his large frame into the chair by the door, and the ever-present hound Sascha curls up at his feet as he produces an apple and paring knife from his coat, setting the blade to the thin skin of the fruit as he speaks. "You talk in your sleep."

I close my eyes.

"I know this by accident, of course," he continues. "We took turns checking your fever last night. Who is Edward?"

Another memory: Edward moving inside of me, grace and fire and groaning.

I shake my head.

"If you do not tell me, then I will ask again and again." He smiles. "I am very persistent."

"Why does it matter?"

"It may not, but it interests me. _You_ interest me, Isabella, and you are less subtle than you think, dragging your broken heart around like a favorite toy."

And I am silent still, for broken hearts are found in the flayed-open chests of silly, weak things and my heart is not broken. My fingers do not itch for the feel of another's skin. My teeth do not grind at the memory of his taste.

"Of course, if you do not want to speak of him…"

"I don't."

He smiles, intent for a few moments on the uninterrupted scrawl of the apple peel.

"I have Etienne and Matthieu pruning the southern rows," he says suddenly, his tone casual as the peel grows longer. "It is amazing, the way they work when there is no pretty girl to stare at. There must be irony in that somewhere, I suppose: temptation has been removed from them, and so they are free to focus on the apple trees." He sighs. "But Eve made her own choices, and the Vignys must make theirs. That is how the world works. Forbidden fruit, women — the pretty things are the most dangerous. We sell our souls to have them."

Prim, pretty thing, Edward whispered once.

"Spoken like one who knows," I rasp.

He shrugs. "You are not the first pretty thing to cross my path, little stray. Now tell me: who is Edward?"

Ignoring him, my eyes fall to the books again. There is one in the pile, _Le soldat oublié,_ which I have not yet read.

_Le soldat oublié. _The Forgotten Soldier.

"Someone you love?" Laurent presses, his gaze following mine to the books' scarred spines. "Someone who has died?"

I frown. Laurent sees it.

"No? Then perhaps someone who has left you."

"I left."

The words fall from my mouth unbidden. I frown as soon as I speak them.

"You left him?" Laurent repeats, surprised. "Ah. You see, now we are getting somewhere. He loved you?"

I ignore him once more, my eyes on _Le soldat oblié_.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward Cullen is trying to woo me, a playboy setting aside the chase for a moment as the strains of _Non Credere_ float above the dance floor of Locanda.

He thinks the cold thing in his arms can do more than fuck him six ways to Sunday, and so he begins to reveal himself. And I brush my fingers softly against his neck as I listen.

"My middle name is Anthony," he says, the smooth cadence of his words almost lost beneath the music. "I'm named after my grandfather. My birthday is June 20. I'm thirty-two years old and I'm the youngest VP to oversee Mergers Acquisitions in the history of my family's investment firm."

I listen, staring over his shoulder, swaying dumbly to the music as he continues.

"I went to Penn for undergrad and did my MBA at Columbia. My mother's name is- _was_ Elizabeth. She was one of the first female Fortune 500 CEOs in the country, she died when I was eighteen, and I'm still angry at her for a myriad of reasons I won't go into. My younger sister, whom you've met, is my mother reincarnate, minus the work ethic, and tries to plan every fucking second of my life. My father is Carlisle Masen - yes, _that_ Carlisle Masen - who, as I'm sure you know, is renowned as the most obnoxious real estate developer in the whole of the Western Hemisphere..."

"I've never been arrested, and I've never been in love, but I went skydiving for my twenty-first birthday and it was one of the only times I've actually felt alive. My favorite book is 'The Forgotten Soldier' by Guy Sajer, and I don't give a fuck if it's nonfiction or not because, I swear to god, it was the first story I really understood."

Later, I'll watch him lose his words as I roll my hips against him, pressing him down against my mattress and smiling at his rapt expression. Later, I will score his flesh with my fingernails and whisper that I've marked him. Later, Paul will show up on my doorstep with the news that my mother is gone forever.

But now, he is telling me secrets, and I tell my hands to loosen their grip as I suck his words inside where they will live in hollow, hallowed places.

Where they live still.

**+.+.+.+**

The pages of _Le soldat oblié_ are worn, crinkled and folded over in places, but I read through its chapters as my body steadily exorcises the weakness wrought by fever and exhaustion.

"_As I remember his laug_h," Sajer wrote, "_there was nothing mad about it, it was more like the laugh of someone who has been the victim of a practical joke, a farce in which he had believed until suddenly he realized his folly_."

"Why me?" Edward asked me that night in the hallway, stone words falling from white lips.

I wanted you, I told him then.

**+.+.+.+**

Hours later, the book lies discarded on the counterpane. Unoccupied, my fingers writhe around each other, feeling their mates' sinew and bone, worrying at the skin like a hound on the hunt.

The fever has broken, but I would swear that Edward's scent permeates the air as my mind races. _Liar_, it whispers, jolting me out of another memory.

Liar.

I am a liar. I have lied to him.

I do not want him. This is not want.

_I did love you_, Edward told me, but this is not love. This is not benevolent warmth, calming embraces or the security of home.

It is fire, it is ice. It is a blade in my gut, a hook in my heart.

It is the need to claw, catch, anger him, melt against his fury and meld myself against the heat of him, fuse him to my bones as he protests and steal every bit of him until it's inside me.

I need to own him, to harm him and hurt him and hold him to make him stay.

I've been in the throes of this sickness since I was a child — the desire to have him at my feet. To be the master. To watch him want me with a desperation that feels like agony.

It is not love, but it demands a reckoning.

**+.+.+.+**

In a moment, Edward will leave.

He stares at me, my journal in his hand, my fears and fantasies inside his head. He knows the truth, has come for his pound of flesh.

_I am not afraid of you_, he tells me.

In a moment, I'll let him fuck me on the floor. In a moment, I will watch him go.

But for now, my gaze falters.

**+.+.+.+**

It is the third morning since the fever broke, and I walk slowly down the stairs to breakfast. My father's itinerary feels like it is burning a square in the pocket of my coat.

"Isabella!" Ilse exclaims when she sees me in the kitchen doorway. "I am glad you are feeling better."

"She would drop if the wind blew the right way," Laurent snorts from his place at the table. "Don't think you're working with me today. I have enough to do without watching you swoon in front of the chickens."

I am still a moment, taking in the warmth of the bright, busy kitchen, the hospitality of Ilse and the answering gruffness of her grandson. It is a pretty picture, one in which I do not belong.

"I'm not working," I tell them. "I'm leaving."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**I know it's been an extremely long time, so if you're reading this, please accept both my thanks and an apology for keeping you waiting. Several huge life changes have happened in the last two years, which (of course) occurred when people started to care about something I was writing. Ah, c'est la vie. **** As always, I'm grateful to Myg for cyber-kicking my ass to write, and for providing insight and editing for each chapter.**

**Thanks again for reading this story and for all of your kind words and encouragement and funny tweets, etc., etc. **

**My access to the internet ain't what it used to be. That being said, I'll update on Wednesday. **


	25. Turn, Return

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I drink to this demolished house

To all this wickedness,

To you, our loneliness together,

I raise my glass—

"_The Last Toast" _

(Anna Akhmatova)

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

"Ilse, look at the sky."

We are young again, the deepest lines absent from Ilse's smiling face as she humors me, raising her eyes to the heavens. "What am I looking for, _Liebchen_?"

"It's a lamb," I tell her, pointing to the shape. "See?"

"Oh, yes," she agrees. "Very good." "

"What else do you see?"

"Nothing else," she sighs, looking away from the clouds and affectionately patting my head. "Why would I look for lambs in heaven when I have one sitting on the ground in front of me?"

"I'm not a lamb," I declare, scowling.

"Oh?"

"No. Lambs are stupid. Like the ones we saw the other day — they just stand there while the dogs run around and bark at them."

"There's not much for them to do about it, child. The dogs are faster and have sharper teeth."

"The dogs are smarter. I'd rather be a dog than a lamb."

"Little girls do not aspire to be dogs," she admonishes. "Dogs are filthy, stinky creatures."

"I want to be something strong. Like a bear. Or a tiger."

She hums thoughtfully. "A lion, I think," she suggests. "If you must be something, be a lion. The lion is the king of the beasts."

"I don't want to be a lion. I'd rather be a lioness," I correct. "The queen of the beasts."

"Every queen needs a king, Isabella."

"I don't. I'll be a queen by myself, and I'll eat lamb every night for dinner."

Ilse laughs indulgently, her face tilted toward the sky and in the sunlight, she is beautiful.

**+.+.+.+**

My last evening in Sainte-Mère-Église is spent in the small den of _Au Chien Pèlerin_ in the glow of a few lamps and the muted television. Caroline and Laurent have gone to tend to a calving in the barn, and I am alone with Ilse as the evening news' images play across the screen in a silent tableau of people I've never met, events that do not interest me. Ilse works beside me, bent over her embroidery, an expression of intense concentration bunching the soft wrinkles of her face.

"It is a handkerchief," she told me yesterday. "See now, I am making the lily— do you see the petals?" She smiled then, satisfied at my obedient nod. "Every lady should have a handkerchief."

I'd barely noted her words then, distracted by the sadness that came with the sight of her laboring so diligently over what looked to be a plain scrap of linen.

And now she works, and I look away, as still as a waiting spider. Work, after all, does not change the way things are, the way they must be. Monsters do not sprout halos, and linen will never be silk.

But despite these thoughts, something familiar has begun to stir within like the sting of a fire shut up in brittle bones. My fingers drum against my thigh, anxious to write, to pin something of this feeling down and pick it apart on a page until it is a pile of bones and nothing more.

"Isabella."

My fingers still at the sound of Ilse's voice, and I tear my eyes away from the screen to meet her steady gaze.

"I must ask you something," she begins, her weathered fingers motionless amidst the knotted daisies of her embroidery. "You must answer honestly, or not at all."

I nod.

"Have you been happy here?"

The question is asked kindly, soft as a petal on a razor's edge and my lips part to answer, but I do not have the words she wants.

I don't know, I want to say. How could I know?

"I know you are restless," she continues as if I had answered her. "You do not want to be an orchard worker for the rest of your life." She looks down at the needlework in her lap, her face softening. "I wonder, do you remember your mother's swans? We used to watch them on our picnics."

"I remember."

"I loved those picnics. You were a shy child, but there were moments when you would forget yourself, so fascinated by everything. Always watching, wide-eyed. I see traces of that still."

I frown; she is not finished.

"Do you know what I think?" she asks after a moment. "I think your eyes stayed too big, _Liebchen_ — you saw too much, too young. You took the measure of the world too soon and learned to see life as a bloodsport, and people as threats. Or toys."

"You make it sound like I chose to be this way," I intone bitterly, my voice breaking over the syllables.

"Didn't you?"

I chose _him_, I want to say, and the words are bile filling my throat.

"Who?" Ilse asks quietly, her eyes sharp as ever and too late, I realize that I have spoken aloud.

Silent, I ignore her.

"_Your father's daughter_," my mother whispers, her face before me, and I see an entire future in the hollow spectre of her eyes_._ Cold, she called me, and I did not feel it.

But I feel it now, the elegant ghost of her hand running the length of my back. Dead, I tell her silently. You're dead, and I'm still cold.

"Isabella."

At Ilse's voice, the shade of my mother dissolves in an instant.

"There are still so many secrets behind that pretty face," Ilse muses, something sad in her voice. "Some day soon, you will tell me what they are. Until then, you must promise me something."

Warily, I nod.

"Promise me that you will remember that you were loved here, and that you survived it." She smiles my confusion. "It is both the simplest and the hardest thing I can ask of you."

She turns back to her needle and thread without waiting for a response.

And the promise I've silently made is just another thread stretching from behind my ribs to the eye of the needle in her wrinkled, restless hand.

**+.+.+.+**

"Love is never enough," my father tells me, a lone skeleton bound by ambition and waxing eloquent on the disadvantages of flesh and blood, his words echoing in my head.

_Love in action_, Dostoyevsky wrote, _is a harsh and dreadful thing. _

"What do you know about love?" Edward once demanded of me, but I only laughed like a lunatic, pulled him closer to feel my pulse, disintegrated in the flicker of a pagan flame as he took, and took, and took what was clutched between fingers of naked bone.

**+.+.+.+**

Generous to the end, Ilse pays me what she claims are wages earned, with more than enough to survive after the purchase of a plane ticket.

"it is no easy thing to work with Laurent," she explains with a smile, and as she kisses me goodbye, I feel her hand slip something into the pocket of my coat. She stops me as I reach down. "For after you are gone," she says quietly.

There is a cloud of dust as we pull away from the gravel of the drive, and then the road is as smooth as the wet tracks cutting a salty path across my face.

Laurent's taciturn silence fills the cab of the truck as we make our way to the airport in Caen; farewells seem to be one of many things that do not ruffle him.

And so we are quiet.

"Goodbye, little stray," he tells me when we arrive, handing me my bag. I leave him with the rickety old truck, covered with the dirt of Normandy, remnants of soil I can still feel under my fingernails.

I reach into my pocket as I walk through the terminal, only to find that it is Ilse's handiwork — a pristine linen handkerchief, adorned with a lone lily. I run a finger over the even lines of the stitches, her words from the evening before echoing over the noise of the terminal, whispering over the eventual growl of the plane.

You survived it, she said.

And then the hum of the aircraft lulls me and dozing, I dream in splashes of violent color, my skin too small to contain me as I soar above the ocean cliffs of Normandy. Rocks jutting out of the surf below beckon to me, cold, sharp arms outstretched to receive and I can hear Edward's voice, the whisper of his memory carrying on the wind in a thousand words he's spoken and a few he has not.

A siren, he hisses. You led me to destruction, threw me into the sea's gaping maw and laughed as I fell, flailed.

I wake with a jolt, blinking away his face until I am awake enough to open the neglected brown leather of my journal. I write myself senseless, nerves and fatigue and the pulling in my chest spill onto the page, things of the apple orchard, of how I shriveled,staring into a cadaver wildernesswith shrunken, sunken eyes and brittle skin stretched mawkishlyacross bones too sharp. I write of the reckoning within, how it sounds, growls like a thunderclap, grows louder with every traversed mile. I write of how my feet carry me back toward destruction.

My pen flies, words hemorrhaging from its bleeding tip as I suck in the rebel winds to fill my lungs, these sails that carry me closer to the edges and ends of the world.

**+.+.+.+**

I burst forth from the garden maze, winded, wide-eyed and covered in leaves and dirt when my father sees me.

"There you are!" he tells me, catching my ten year old body as I crash into him. "Bella—where on earth have you been?"

But I only shake my head, burrowing into his tuxedo-clad shoulder.

"Have you found her?" someone asks him.

"I've got her," he calls, walking back toward the house. "I think she was stuck in the maze."

I still am, I whisper now, and my skin still feels the prickle of the hedgerows.

**+.+.+.+**

We touch down at Heathrow and my fingertips freeze where they are pressed against the chill of the window. There is an odd twist in my stomach as the flight attendant welcomes us all to London, and I reach for where the folded itinerary rests in my coat pocket. I do not need to open it again to know that my father is now delivering a speech on Politics, Ideology and Media to a roomful of wide-eyed political acolytes at the London School of Economics and Political Science.

He is scheduled to leave the event promptly at four o'clock, giving him a little over three hours to glad-hand, pose for photographs and return to his suite to get dressed for his evening engagement — a black tie anniversary party at a private estate outside of London.

"The Four Seasons, Park Lane," I tell a cab driver long minutes later, breathing deep as we melt into the sea of traffic.

It's half-past three by the time I enter the ornate hotel lobby, approaching the elevators with a steady click, click, click of my heels against the marble floor. The stilettos pinch painfully after almost two months of wearing nothing but muck-boots.

"How may I assist you?" the man at the service desk asks, pretending not to eye the rumpled grey silk of my dress under my open coat.

A few words, a smile and a flash of my passport, and I am given the key to my father's suite.

**+.+.+.+**

I am seventeen, and the Tate Britain gallery echoes with my classmates' whispered conversations.

Before me, a sculpture of lovers cling to one another in an erotic embrace, their figures pressed together, held not only by passion, but by the twine wrapped tightly around their frozen forms. Captivated, and captive.

"Rodin's 'The Kiss,' re-imagined," the curator explains. "Tate Britain is exhibiting it as a piece by Cornelia Parker. The artist wrapped Rodin's sculpture in one mile of string to represent the 'claustrophobia of relationships.' You'll notice the contrast of the two materials: the high culture of the marble, and the low culture of the twine."

Now, my memory twists the features and lines until it is my own face staring back at me from beneath the stone.

**+.+.+.+**

The seventh-floor hallway of the Four Seasons stretches before me, dark, polished wood brightened only by the soft track lighting and the occasional floral accent.

And then I am standing outside the door of the Park Suite, key in hand and I breathe, gathering remnants of ice to me before sliding the key-card.

The door opens into a small foyer. To my right are a set of double doors, and to my left—

"What the hell are you doing here?" a man's voice demands from behind me.

But I only smile as I turn to face him. "Hello, Paul."

**+.+.+.+**

My mother, drunk and sulking in her favorite dress:

"He's not coming back, you know."

"Father?" I clarify, young and dumb and worried, the memory of my father's disappearing tail lights running a loop in my head.

"Yes," she snaps impatiently. "Why would he? Men only want one thing, Isabella, and he's a man. He can do whatever wants, with whomever he can persuade to stay on her back long enough for him to finish. Look at you," she spits, leaning closer, her hand coming up to my hair. She watches, fascinated as the brown strands fill her fingers. "You look just like him. My little souvenir from my marriage to Charles Swan. My little—" she snorts. "—love token."

"Mother…"

But she does not hear me, lost in the dirge for her late youth, her lost husband.

"Ruined," she mutters, closing her eyes.

**+.+.+.+**

Even astonished, Paul Strickland is as handsome as ever. Every crisp, clean line of him screams of my father's favor.

"Don't look so surprised," I tell him, thinking of the paper in my pocket, of the dates and times and places within its creased folds.

He recovers, quickly schooling his features into a neutral expression. "I sent you the itinerary as a courtesy, not an invitation."

"Oh?"

"I thought it only fair to warn you that he was going to be nearby. Your father knew where you were."

"He doesn't know where I am now."

"He will. He's due back here before six."

"Thank you, but I didn't come to see him. I'm here for you."

He eyes me warily. "Why?"

"Because I need help, and you're helpful."

"I'm helpful to your father."

I smile. "Of course. However, I'm attending an event tonight, and I need a few things from you."

"Like what?"

"A car. I'd like a nice dress, as well."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. But I need these things in the next few hours, and I need my father to pay for them."

Paul huffs a disbelieving laugh. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"I can't give you his money— your father cut you off once he realized you left."

"He canceled my card, yes. Yours still works, I'm sure."

"You should leave."

"I will when I get what I came for, and I can't unless you help me."

"Helping you before was a mistake," he sighs.

I smile. "It's one you'll only make twice."

**+.+.+.+**

A Selfridges manager falls over himself assuring me of how glad he is to see Charles Swan's daughter, offering his condolences on my mother's passing before introducing me to Paige, a personal shopper with cornsilk hair and a perpetually ecstatic expression.

The driver that Paul arranged meets me outside, and I am ensconced in the sleek confines of the car as the ribbon of the road winds behind until the trappings of the city die at its own borders.

Soon, I see a familiar stone wall running parallel to the road, its length leading us to the wrought iron gates of the Masen Estate. They are open tonight, a breach in the moneyed barricade made to welcome the arrival of guests and the happy thought of twenty-five more years of wedded bliss.

The car pulls smoothly down the winding drive, gleaming beneath the glow of picturesque the lamp posts that lead to the main house and I force myself to breathe slowly, hands tightening around the black silk of my skirt as the building comes into view. It is as regal as ever, its windows spilling light into the chilly evening air: the rooms inside are brilliantly lit, bountifully populated with the glittering friends of the happy couple.

I am closer and closer and then, before I am ready, we pull to a stop. A valet opens the car door and I stare ahead, breathing deep and steady.

"Ma'am?" he prompts, waiting.

Finally, I step out, looking up to the imposing brick facade of a home burned into my memories, its four walls trapping me still.

_Carnal apple_, Neruda wrote. _Woman filled, burning moon…_

A step and a step and another step, and my feet leave the sand and gravel of the drive, stiletto heels sinking into the landscaped lawn. Muted music plays from the other side of tall windows as I walk, each step carrying me further away from the welcome awaiting each guest at the house's front entrance.

Summers spent roaming the grounds with Ilse unfurl before me. As I walk, the embers in my bones are a full-blown blaze and I think of Neruda, of how he might smile and tell me that the moon lives inside the lining of my skin.

**+.+.+.+**

"What is like to lose your mind?" a boy at school asked me once, and he'd been joking.

"It's at least as easy as keeping it," I'd replied, and meant every word.

**+.+.+.+**

I've been the duckling.

I've been the girl in the corner, the one who watches and waits, wishing.

I've been the un-captivating captive, shackled and slain by that chronic compulsion, the niggling need to belong, to belong, to belong.

I've been the prey, praying for a way out of mazes of my own making. Weak, wanton.

Helpless, hopelessly enthralled by the hunter.

And I've hunted, Athena soaring across the sky in a blaze of stars and arrows, bearing down on game for sport. I have been the predator, merciless and sharp, picking through the minds and bones of those that would consider themselves my betters.

I've devoured as Ammut did, pulling men in with a cold smile and a wet kiss, the warmth of my arms and my breath surrounding them until they gasped and cried and cursed me.

I round the house, finding the pale stones of the terrace spread before me, the clean lines of the garden maze just beyond it. They are both smaller, somehow.

Pulse pounding, I find my old way — the kitchen door, left ajar to ease the heat of the room. Only a few of the catering staff bother to glance my way as I head for the service stairs.

The third floor has been redecorated, the butternut panels and dark carpets lightened to varying neutrals, as if time has whitewashed the place in my absence. The new floor does not creak as I make my way to where I used to hide, young fingers clutching the railing as I watched the the grown-ups enjoying their own society.

I keep away from the farthest part of the landing; to anyone who would see me I am only another guest, taking a break from my tour of the house to survey my surroundings. In the open rooms beneath me, people talk, milling and moving about, kissing each other in greeting and politely laughing at stale jokes as they sip their champagne.

There is Carlisle, sleek as ever, his hair more grey than gold now against the black of his tuxedo jacket.

And Esme beside him, tastefully nipped and tucked and trim in a svelte grey gown.

I even spot my father across the room, paler and thinner and older, worse for the wear as he engages a man I don't know in a conversation that looks gravely serious.

The house is full of music, the tinkling of silver and glasses, and the absence of one man in particular. I scan the space below again but there is no stir of young women, no flash of copper hair.

My fingers curling again around the balustrade, I wait.

**+.+.+.+**

"What's a pretty girl like you doing up here by yourself?" Edward asked me once, coming behind me as I stared down at the adults from my perch.

"I want to watch the party," I answer quietly, cowed by the presence of this boy, by all he represents with his arrogance and looks and the lines of his tuxedo.

And then he made a joke, gave me his last name, and I gave him mine.

"Swan," I told him.

"Not yet, you're not," he laughed, starting down the stairs again. "Maybe someday."

Then I watched him play his game, smiling and touching and talking until he lured his prey through the green halls of the garden maze.

And as always, I followed.

**+.+.+.+**

Cocktail hour is ending, and there is no sign of Edward Cullen.

I am seething with impatience, tendrils of it polluting the air around me with every breath.

Anger, as I consider that perhaps I am always wrong where he is concerned.

Where are you? I want to scream, longing to draw every set of glazed eyes up to the third floor balcony and demand an explanation.

There is desperation in the sinews of my fingers as they flex against the banister, and oh, how far have I fallen? To wait here like a wallflower at a dance, icy reserve and thundering pulse, waiting for just a glimpse of him. I want to cling and claw, repay raw nerves with raw flesh. Punish him for the pull that brought me here, keeps me watching—

And then:

From my vantage point, I can see the group of three young women near a corner facing the entrance; they've done nothing this evening but make eyes at rich divorcés and young waiters.

As I watch, the boredom flees from their features, slender backs straightening and manicured hands subtly patting elegant hair, smoothing silk over bony hips. Lips purse, shoulders come back and, their own conversation forgotten, they eye the door beneath me with smiles I understand. Something has their undivided attention, has them wanting.

I cannot see the object of their stares without bending over the railing, but I do not need to. I know a bitch in heat when I see one. The space around me begins to hum, the air crackling with anticipation.

A familiar fever burns at the base of my spine. My fingers flex, waiting.

**+.+.+.+**

"I am not afraid of you," Edward told me once, angry and quiet.

_Subdue, or sever_, my mind screamed in the moments that followed. _Put a slouch in that proud, private school posture._

**+.+.+.+**

In the space below, the hum of conversation carries on, men giving cursory glances and greetings and the women pausing, looking through caked lashes and I hold my breath.

Patience, I breathe.

Patience.

…and breathe again.

My eyes catch the dark copper of his hair as soon as he comes into sight, the strong, straight back of him as he moves through the room toward his father.

He does not slouch, not even a bit, and I swallow back the hunger snapping within, pangs left unsatisfied by memories and starving for flesh. Desire stretches across and into my skin, covering bones as it loosens and curls, plumes of a filthy fire filling the chambers of my weak and terrible heart.

I've dreamt of him, of having him, of stretching across his body like a blanket just to feel the lift of his breath, the warmth of it on my neck and in my hair and everywhere else. Consuming, being consumed, swallowing him whole like an ancient god swallowing the sun.

Surrounded by his friends, Carlisle smiles as his son approaches and it is nothing more than the baring of teeth, gleaming like blades as he shakes Edward's hand, leans forward to say something in his ear that makes the younger man's proud posture stiffen further. All around, people smile and laugh and look.

Carlisle's conversation with the men beside him resumes. Edward turns to acknowledge something said and my lungs pull a sharp suck of air at his profile, eyes feasting on the strong, sharp lines of his face. How many times in the past have I caught sight of him below, moving through the crowd with the insouciance of an entitled aristocrat? Pampered, predatory.

I watched him here as a child, fascinated by the brutality of such a beautiful hunt, by the way his eyes would gleam, his mouth twitching upward in a mocking smile, a brilliant smile that does not betray its harsh bite.

He is older now, his features bearing a hardness I have not seen before.

_You are for me_, are the words that whisper through my mind.

Soundlessly, my mouth moves around the one thought that pulses, the underpinning beat of a drum:

_Mine_.

The word is barely formed when he turns, eyes snapping up to mine as if I'd commanded it. I freeze.

Carlisle is laughing at something, grabbing his son's arm. Edward does not look away from me.

Any moment now, his father will wonder why his son ignores him in favor of staring up at the landing of the staircase, and I will be seen. I move back, disappearing into the shadow of the hallway, the barrier of the wall breaking our gaze.

**+.+.+.+**

I spend my summer days in the Masens' garden, half-listening as Ilse tells me stories of people long past, of how Abram gave his wife to the pharaoh in exchange for money and safety, of how he made God angry.

"You know that's not right, don't you?" she asks me earnestly. "That you are more than just some bargaining chip for silly rich men?"

And I tell her that I know, impatient to explore.

"Can I go in the maze now?" I ask her.

But she only shakes her head, a faraway look in her eyes as she tells me to stay away.

**+.+.+.+**

My limbs are light, shaking as I gather my skirt and run down the service stairs, every inch of me singing with pleasure, with exultation.

He has seen me, and he will come.

I am flying, flying, flying — through the kitchen, and out the back door, too flushed to feel the bite of the winter air, too exhilarated to stop running. My footsteps are loud here, sounding against the terrace like the beat of a funeral dirge. And then there is sod, and they are silent.

Hedges loom ahead, silhouettes of dreams and memories waiting within.

_Come inside_, they beckon with the whisper of a breeze. _Come and claim._

A moment later, my name is a shouted sound from the terrace, a burst of fury and disbelief.

Catch me, I want to call, but all that sounds is a mocking laugh, and I keep moving.

_Freedom!_ the night sings,

freedom,

freedom,

freedom,

and the sound is a jubilant howl as I breach the waiting walls of the garden maze.

**+.+.+.+**

"Who is Edward Cullen to you?" my father asked me once, and I refused to answer even as I knew.

He is my prey and my prayer and my captive, my spoils of war, my conquered city and my friendly fire.

He is the thief of my skin,

my monster in the maze,

my sun god, grounded.

He is mine.

**+.+.+.+**

It has been years, but my feet know the way of a path well-traveled in dreams. After a series of turns there is a left, another left and a quick right, and I am here.

Time and the winter have borne down upon this place in the heart of the maze. The grass beneath my feet has been browned with the cold, and patches of branch show through the shrubs' sparse leaves.

But the stone bench remains the same, immutable as an altar.

The memory plays out behind my eyes: Edward fucking some girl laid across the stone seat, his ridicule rendering their tryst as impersonal as a handshake—

"Isabella."

He is here.

And the world is on fire again.

I take another deep pull of the frigid air before turning to face him.

Tall and straight and beautiful, with enough scotch in his gaze to make him blink as I meet his eyes.

"Edward," I say, cursing the shake of my voice.

"Isabella," he repeats flatly.

"It's good to see you again."

Touch, my fingers demand. Touch and grab, clutch, keep.

Black tuxedo, black tie.

His breathing is labored, eyes sweeping down my body and back up, staring hard into my face. The only thing I've heard him say thus far is my name, but now silence overtakes us, settling into the small clearing like a fog, and I cannot look away from him. Drunk with proximity, my eyes cling to his face, a heavy brow over brittle eyes, a strong, straight nose and the downward turn of his mouth.

And now he speaks, stone words falling onto a still-living breast:

"You need to leave."

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**Everyone's reviews have been a huge shot in the arm as this story nears the finish line. Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave them. And (broken record, but it's true), thank you to Myg, whose wunderbar work "Osa Bella" is still one of my very favorite stories. She's been a huge encouragement, and I'm grateful that I get to hear her thoughts on these chapters before they are posted. **

**I am still tweaking/filling out our next update. Here's hoping to have it on your screens next week. (If that changes, I'll let you know via my twitter account hollelujahs.) **

**Thanks again!**


	26. The Reckoning

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

All as before: against the dining-room windows

Beats the scattered windswept snow,

And I have not changed either,

But a man came to me.

I asked: "What do you want?"

He replied: "To be with you in Hell."

I laughed: "Oh, you'll foredoom

Us both to disaster."

But lifting his dry hand

He lightly touched the flowers:

"Tell me how men kiss you,

Tell me how you kiss men."

Not a single muscle quivered

On his radiantly evil face.

Oh, I know: his delight

Is the tense and passionate knowledge

That he needs nothing,

That I can refuse him nothing.

"_The Guest"_

(Anna Akhmatova)

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

It is a stern work that fire does.

Heat that has circled for weeks, ravenous and cunning, closes in,

burning frost away layer by layer,

sloughing away the ice like an old skin.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'm not leaving," I tell Edward.

That jaw, sharp as a blade, clenches before he speaks. "I'm not going to tell you twice," he replies sharply, words suspended in the frigid air by breath and fury. He is as cold as he's ever been, harsh as a winter storm.

Athena stirs, casts a hungry glance at his defiant mouth. "You'll regret telling me once."

"Is that a threat?" he asks, those even, elegant features as lethal and distracting as the hood of an angry cobra.

I note the defensiveness of his stance and think, Yes.

But no.

I laughed at him before in New York, watched as he hung his head, bested him at his own game as I pulled his flesh into mine. He was nothing more than a brat prince then, arrogant and careless and spoiled — my once-distant dream, my most prized trophy.

But then there was the rending of the veil, his face as he saw into my holy of holies and the empty echoes of his footsteps as he walked away, leaving me angry and aching from him, for him. Those empty nights in Sainte-Mere-Eglise… the edges of him softening with memory and that hated longing.

And here he is now, everything I want and hate and crave and fear.

Ilse's words come, a pinch in the midst of the fever dream:

_You took the measure of the world too soon and learned to see life as a bloodsport, and people as threats. Or toys._

Breathe,

wait,

and breathe again.

**+.+.+.+**

I've dreamt of seeing him again, and of other things:

Of tracing every plane of him, the angles and contours and flatnesses.

Of taking his face into my small hands, keeping him steady and pressing his mouth to mine, parting lips and gleaming teeth, pink tongues and hot breath as we taste and take, take, take.

Of giving, sliding down the column of his body as his breath comes faster, as I take him in my mouth and keep him captive with a hum and a swallow.

Of claiming him, closing in his strong hips with the pale parentheses of my thighs, parting myself like the skin of a temple offering, taking him in with the hot, wet suck of where I want him most.

Of doing this again and again and again, breathing whispers of the sacred and the carnal as his eyes stare up into my face, wide open, smokeless fires as we move.

Of him coming inside as I flutter around him, whimpering like a schoolgirl who doesn't know any better.

Of collapsing like a beast well-slain.

Of letting him win.

**+.+.+.+**

"I wanted to see you," I tell him.

His expression remains unmoved. "You've seen me."

"Don't be glib."

"The game is over. I quit. You won. Now leave."

"It isn't a game."

"It's never been anything else."

I hear my own pulse, the steady, thrumming harbinger of an approaching storm but I don't care, I'll call to the water like a sea witch, reach for the coming thunder like a sky god, sigh as it sweeps me away. "It's different now."

He arches an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"You think I'm lying?"

"I have no reason not to. You've manipulated me before. Kept me in the dark."

"You're not in the dark anymore."

"I disagree. You appear at my parents' home, uninvited, after disappearing for months, and I have no idea why you're here."

The truth is quick, words burning as they fall from my lips. "I want you."

"You're lying."

"I've never lied to you."

He moves another step closer; my nostrils flare involuntarily as his scent surrounds me. "Let's pretend for a moment that that's true. That I believe you." The words drip like acid from his tongue. "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"It seems to matter enough for you to show up at my parents' home uninvited. Go on," he urges, smiling coldly. "Tell me why you want me." He takes a step closer, exhales turned to silver mist by the cold and the moonlight. His sharp smile tightens, tension coiling in the grim line of his mouth. "Are you in love with me?"

_Love is never enough_, my father told me once.

The pressure inside builds, burns and shifts, the pulsing molten rock of a caldera mounting to a crescendo before it erupts, explodes, spills out inside of me until it is bigger than my bones, decimating fear and prey and posturing until my breath is ash and my skin is too small to contain it.

Because it can't be love. I don't want poems or well-wishes and I will not sacrifice for his happiness, I want nothing to do with it if it means letting him go.

"No," I answer sharply.

His features transform into a blank mask. "It's good to know some things haven't changed."

There is only a foot of space between us now, filled with breath and the quiet roar of blood rushing, singing beneath my skin. Unbidden, my hand reaches up — climbing, climbing until my fingers find the smooth stone of his face. It's been so long since they've felt him.

He flinches away at my touch. "Don't touch me."

I touch him anyway. "You're angry because the truth isn't what you want to hear. But it's all I have," I tell him, feeling his jaw bunch beneath my fingers. "I'm giving it to you now."

"It's not enough. It's not even an apology."

"It could be enough. And you don't need an apology."

"You humiliated me."

"I know."

He sighs heavily.

If I listen closely enough, I can hear the clink of glasses from the rooms inside, the chatter of his parents' guests, so perfectly groomed, raised to their places by a million petty rules, by the captivity of caring for reputation, for convention.

_Crazy, crazy_, the clouds whisper, and I silence them with a look. "We don't have to be like everyone else," I tell him. "They want security. The illusion of power. They'll spend years laughing and flirting and fucking around, everyone trying to be on top with their money and their connections and their families' legacies — they're bored. They're liars. They're weak. And that's not what you want."

He eyes me warily. "You don't know what I want."

But I'm sure I do. Because everyone wants power, but few understand that it isn't titles or speeches or money — it's a whisper in a dark place, a kiss in the corner, a shapeless something in the shadows.

It's in the predatory smile of a young man as he seduces his prey on the cold stone bench of a garden maze.

It's in the touch of a girl as she leads her lover away from the party, subdues him in the absence of the mindless chatter.

"I see you," I tell him, echoing words he gave me long ago. "I know you."

"You knew how to fuck me," he responds flatly. "You never knew me."

But he's wrong.

"You spend your days trapped in a shiny office letting your employees kiss your ass. The women you know would do anything for a little bit of your time, and the ones you've had are all the same: beautiful, willing, wet. They're boring. I know why you carved those words into your piano." I press myself closer to him, note the jumping pulse barely concealed beneath skin paled by the pearl of the moon. "'_The game still continues, but no one has fun_.' Without even trying, you have the kind of power everyone in there wants to have, and it galls you. It's made you dull. You've fucked or fired half of Manhattan just to feel something."

"You're crazy," he accuses, but foolish man, he's not as unaffected as he'd like to appear.

"Perhaps," I concede, digging my fingers further into him just to feel the hardness of his bones, the sharp cut of his body. My blood pulls and sings — desire, rising like the dark of a storm, the stark negative of a memory.

He is the only one who does this, who's made me subject to the sensation of falling, of flailing, of failing. I can no more let him go than separate the chambers of my weak and angry heart.

I am not enough — but I will be enough.

"I know you," I say again, and certainty is the shape of every syllable. "And you want this."

_And the stone word fell_, Akhmatova wrote.

A flicker, something in his eyes flies free of his will, rising above his impenetrable glare to dig its needy talons into my chest.

Hope, crawling from the ruins of fallen idols, picking across the rubble of every sacred place I have ever demolished. From the pile of discarded temples, I reach for him, cold flesh for cold fingers.

And my own words are granite, burned out of my still-living breast but I cast them at his feet, rocks as my ransom. "I want it, too."

**+.+.+.+**

A breeze stirs, climbs, crescendos,

picking at discarded petals of a dying bloom.

Whipping itself into the frenzy of a gale

pulling everything down, down, down

until all that is left are stigma and style,

red and raw and naked in the cold.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward stares down at me.

His jaw flexes before he speaks: "Prove it."

I fight the urge to fight or flee, fire and ash spilling from the gaping wound between my lungs. It is the challenge of a _torero_, the wave of a scarlet cape.

"Sit down," he commands, hard eyes and bold words.

I hesitate, fighting the tremor of unholy anticipation running through my limbs.

_How has it come to this? _Ammut snarls, wings disintegrating into gossamer and flame. _Fool, fool—_

But then breathe,

breathe again,

and follow the thread,

the brazen skein of color tied behind the apex of my lungs,

and fastened around the pulse that jumps inside his throat.

I sit.

_I am not afraid of you_, Edward once told me, and here is the proof, staring down at me boldly as I swallow back the reflex of defiance, the trouble of control.

_He will best you, betray you_, Artemis hisses, the hem of her hunting gown ablaze.

I silence her, waiting, watching him.

After several long moments he moves closer.

Cold hands cup my jaw, his breath hitching slightly as slowly, one of his hands moves up from his side, elegant fingers reaching to touch the small hollow between the sharp cut of my collarbones before moving up, up, around until he holds my throat in his hand. Strong fingers press into my neck, pushing against the fragile bones almost painfully. His scent surrounds me, soap and something expensive.

I hold his gaze, my shoulders stiff and straight in the face of the manic winds behind his eyes, their light surging, flickering.

"Tell me how this ends," he demands. "Do you leave?"

I can't, I want to say, but cannot. I shake my head.

"I've thought about this," he confesses in a low voice, seemingly transfixed by the sight of his hand against me. "I'm always thinking about it."

Those well-formed fingers flex convulsively; he struggles to control them.

"But I could end all of this right now," he mutters harshly. "For all the times you've made me beg… made me want."

I press into his hand, wanting more, hating the way my voice won't form words that are not enough to calm the wildness of his eyes. I remember the Normandy cliffs, crooked bluffs against an angry sea.

"You want me?" he demands.

I nod. His fingers tighten again.

"Ask me what I want, Isabella."

_Fall and we'll catch you_, the rocks in the water cry.

"What do you want?" I whisper.

"I want…" he begins quietly, his eyes far away for a moment before sliding down to my lap. "I want to know what's under your dress."

The whisper of nights spent aching for him gathers in my head, a storm-cloud building to break. My pulse sounds the thunderclap from behind its gilded cage.

_Fool, fool_.

"Show me," he commands: a dare to refuse.

His eyes are sharp as I reach cold hands to gather my skirt, lifting the clinging shadow of silk up, up, up until my my legs are bare to the tops of my thighs, my nakedness displayed. I hold the gathered fabric to my waist as his scorching gaze and the chill of the night air cut like a whip across my skin.

Eyes on bare flesh, Edward's hand moves across the jut of my collarbone, skimming down, down, down, sliding beneath my dress, grazing the top of my breast, down further to its peak as he gently squeezes, teases. I do not look away from his face.

Gravity pulls against my pulse, roots me to the earth as light shimmers against the surface of my skin like a current. I am the child who cried for the moon and got it, arms open to clutch the mystery of its thrill and glow to my frail chest as I breathe his name—

Suddenly, with a ragged curse, he retreats, and the cold air caresses where his hand held me a moment before.

I frown, shivering at the ghost of him against me.

Several feet away now, he watches me, chest heaving like he's carried something heavy, dropped it at my feet.

There is still a question that hangs in the ether between us, unformed and unanswered.

_Is this real?_

Waves surge, smashing against those white, crumbling cliffs, catching them as they collapse into the rabid surf,

the wind blows the flame into a wildfire,

the thread tightens,

and my silent yes flies free, though the muscle of my throat tries to catch it.

Then he is close again.

We crash into each other, ravenous beasts at the end of a winter hunt.

**+.+.+.+**

Dormant things stir beneath old scars, waking to turn waiting faces up to the warmth.

All of nature groans, reawakens, shakes off the sterile cloak of winter to renew itself,

changing to adapt,

to survive.

**+.+.+.+**

Edward's fingers pull and travel, restless against the curves and hollows of my body. I cling to him, shivering, pulling at his tie and clawing at his collar until more of his flesh is exposed to my seeking lips.

I suck and bite and kiss his skin, inhaling salt and his scent into the caverns of my mouth, letting him fill the lonely places between my breasts, my thighs as he pushes me back, pulls me down until I am laid upon this cold stone altar, a weak and burning sacrifice to a vengeful god.

He is cruel in his fervor, handling my skin with the insouciant roughness of a man with his whore, ripping the silk of my dress and rending the straps like an impatient child. He curses, tears and pulls until the frigid night air slashes my bare skin, the fire inside roaring with indignation at the chill. My breasts bare beneath the moon for only a moment before he covers them with his mouth.

I gasp, crying out as my flesh is warmed with his lips, the pull of his suck and the sting of his teeth. His eyes are closed tightly but my hands are angry against his face, fingers telling him to look, to look up and then he does, gives me wide and wild eyes and I cannot breathe anymore, I am burning, burning, burning.

Exultant, uncaring, my fingers pull errant handfuls of his hair as the hot silk of his mouth moves across my stomach. His knees hit the ground as he pulls me forward, arms beneath my legs, hands grasping at the juncture of hip and thigh, pushing and pulling until his breath comes hot against the inside of my thigh.

His fingers find me where I am hot and wet, split me open like a ripe peach and he freezes. I look down after a long moment of nothing to find his eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly with the fervor of a holy man.

A small, questioning noise escapes my throat. He groans at the sound.

And then he is against me, angry lips and tongue and teeth pressing into me once, five, ten times and the noises ripping their way out of my throat are as much as pain as pleasure as he ruts against nothing, presses his face into me and it is violence and beauty, flying and drowning as I buck, gasp, muscles tightening almost to the point of agony.

"Fuck," he breathes, over and over as he covers me again, greedy hands moving across my ribs, rungs on a ladder of bone, grasping the slight weight of my breasts, gathering them up like a manna to his seeking mouth as it tastes the acrid need of my skin.

"Tell me how this ends," he demands against my skin, but I am beyond words.

We are clumsy, graceless, rough: kissing, sucking, biting,

his fingers grabbing and pulling, one hand roaming down to the waistband of his trousers before he releases himself and then I feel him, heavy against my leg and it has been too long.

Closer, closer, closer—

I find the pulse of his neck with my mouth, teeth bared against flesh as his arm snakes roughly beneath me, bends me back and I can feel the angry heat of his cock against me as we both cry out at the contact. His hand moves to my leg, pulls it up, around until I am rubbing myself against him like an animal in heat, panting my pleasure as he flexes his hips.

We are frantic, panting wild when he lines himself up, the hot head of him against me, pushing in and I am tight around him, gasping and gaping as the silk of his black tie touches my breasts.

"God," he grunts, face twisted in what looks like anger and he cannot hold still, he cannot be gentle and I am already tensing again, squeezing around him.

He freezes as I come, closing his eyes. His hands curl into fists on either side of me. We are still for a moment as my body comes down, caressing his length before I urge him to move again.

Over and over and over, advancing and retreating, flesh against flesh against stone as I writhe like a flame around him, our breaths mingling into a litany of the sacred and profane.

Soon, he is close; I recognize the tightening of his eyes, the soundless gape of his mouth and I pull him flush against me, fire and sweat and fluttering around his cock with another cry.

I breathe his name, and it falls from my lips like a curse.

He freezes, eyes boring into me with an emotion I am too far gone to read.

"Say it again," he demands, and it is gravel and rust, the twist and grind of the oldest machinery in the universe.

_Fool_, comes Ammut's dying cry.

"Edward," comes my own.

He presses himself into me, hands in my hair, teeth against my neck as his hips rut against me in a tattoo of short and violent thrusts. He pushes and pushes and spills inside me with a desperate growl against my skin.

There is panting, the chill of coming down.

And then we are still.

He is finished and I am finished and we both breathe with the harsh bursts of hunted animals, the death rattles of a sacrifice laid upon this cold, stone altar.

Predator, prey — what does it matter when each circles the other in an ourobourous of blade and flame?

Blade and flame.

The sun god, grounded.

And the last of pieces of me melt, slipping away like floes of ice upon a stormy sea.

**+.+.+.+**

Beneath pale skin, blood resumes its journey,

rushing forward in the primal rhythm of a pulse,

filling numb and lifeless limbs.

**+.+.+.+**

We are statues entwined in the darkness, an obscene satire of Rodin's _Kiss_. Cold skin faded to shades of stone amidst carcasses of discarded deities and heavy words.

Dazed, I lift a hand to examine its silhouette against the full moon, flexing empty fingers and marveling at every small perfection of their movement, their strength, these tiny bones that held him to me only moments ago. My flesh is painted with the shadows of every moan and suck and bite. My inner thighs ache from the force of him.

Eventually, Edward pulls away and out, sitting on the ground with his back to me as the moonlight bathes my naked, shivering thighs. A chill from the cold stone of the bench shudders through me but I pay it no mind, revelling in the lightness, the heat within — this delicious, restless warmth. This foreign hope.

On the ground, Edward is motionless, silently staring at the maze wall. I stretch, reach my shaking hand to rest in the perfect tangle of his hair.

He turns his head. The full moon casts his profile in shadow, accenting every angle of his arrogant features in silver and white.

"You're cold," he absently notes.

I exhale into the night, savoring the smoke of my own breath. "Perhaps."

"You don't have a coat?"

My lips curve into a smile. "I have a car."

The meaning of my words is not lost on him. There is distance in his eyes as they meet mine. "Isabella."

I freeze. "Don't," I tell him.

"This was a mistake," he finishes quietly.

All around us is silence, nature suspended as we breathe.

"I came back for you," I spit.

"You shouldn't have."

The altar is burning, but I do not climb down. "Why are you saying this?"

He looks at me for a moment before shaking his head, his brow bearing the exhausted furrows of a man conquered twice. "You can't be serious."

"Answer me."

"This…" he gestures to our surroundings. "This is why. You're toxic, Isabella. I can't think straight around you."

"We talked about this," I seethe. "We don't have to be like those people—"

"We _are _those people," he interrupts sharply.

"So that's it, then?" I demand, my face tightening indignantly, humiliation and desperation seeping through my words as he stands.

"How did you think this would end?" he asks. "Did you think choosing to come here would erase the past?"

There is a sudden pull, a painful twist, a rip between my lungs.

"There is no choice," I choke out. "There's nothing else."

He looks away. "I won't let you ruin me."

It is iron on iron, the slam of a door and the click of a lock.

Fury surges with this realization: how pitiful I must seem, staring at him with the hopeful anticipation of a dumb animal that does not know the price of its own hide.

This is my sun god, after all these years,

the monster in the maze whose rutting silhouette has shown me my own desire:

to own, to be free.

But now, there is nothing. All that is left of him was spilled inside of me moments ago. I do not have him; I will not be free.

He's won, and I have let him. I smile stiffly as I think this, the veneer of ice atop a lake of fire as I stand.

Edward sighs, his expression unreadable. "'_The game still continues_,'" he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

I open my mouth to correct him.

But there is no sound.

Was there ever a man who followed a selkie into the sea?

Of course not.

Stupid, stupid girl.

My feet fall into footsteps long ago disappeared,

I fly past the break of the hedge, the lights of the house,

ignoring the shivers that wrack my body as the valet retrieves the car.

Cold, my mother called me, but I did not feel it. Marked, a man on the street once declared. The luckiest, unlucky passionate one.

Look at this dress, at the wealth on my back. Look at the deference with which the Masens' valet addresses me.

And look at these bare arms, too slender for the cold — how they shake! Shivering, though fire runs through the veins within. They are overtaken by the fever of emptiness, the pain of No.

Hours later, I am one of many again, a dot in the stream of people hurrying toward their various destinations. Heathrow has never seemed so busy.

_Fool, fool_, Ammut whispers.

And it's true.

I am a fool. For provoking the petty, indignant rage of my father, the vindictive whispers of my mother's ghost. A fool for abandoning the gods of before, for wanting something that couldn't be touched: freedom and the foreign warmth of him.

A fool for jumping, for falling, for thinking I might survive.

**+.+.+.+**

It is a stern work that fire does.

Heat: a force as unstoppable as time,

wreaking havoc,

petals bleeding across the snow,

a landscape melting into nothing,

as the words of an old dream echo across the glacial remains:

_It is the thaw,_

_and only a fool would fight it._

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**Feeling pretty content/grateful right about now, so this list may be a little longer than usual:**

**Thanks to the writers whose stories made me want to write this one, including (but not limited to) Myg, Rochelle Allison, miaokuancha, plummy, WhatsMyNom, badjujube, quothme, Helenah Jay, WildRedPoppies, etc etc. (there are many more). If memory serves, quothme was the first author I loved to rec this story, which gave me enough self-esteem to keep writing until Myg came along…**

**And Myg gets her own paragraph. She's the best, and I probably would have abandoned this ten chapters ago if she didn't take the time out of her busy life to constructively critique the majority of these chapters. Props to her for being awesome, and if you haven't read her Osa Bella/Reckoner stories THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR GO READ THEM RIGHT THE HELL NOW.**

**And thanks to the friends I've made in the fandom, people like Jada and Karen who make me laugh with gifs, snark, and so on. **

**Last, but not least, I have had some of the loveliest reviews. I can't tell you what a shot in the arm they've been. Thank you all for being so kind. I will do my best to update around this time next week, but will tweet if anything changes.**

**One more chapter and an epilogue to go… **


	27. The Ruins

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

It starts with a gasp

and ends with a groan

the flame licks the tongue

of the lover's lament

melting granite and ice

as the lost queen, at last

stumbles down to her throne

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

And so the selkie returns to the sea, leaving behind the silhouette of the one who sent her away as the laughing moon ascends to her perch.

Look at your daughter, she cries to the sky. This weak and empty thing, her face marred by soot-black streaks she cannot control.

And all for what —

one man?

One man.

Of course, one.

In the end, one is all it takes.

Edward, the altar, the dagger of his eyes and my still-beating heart—

and I stumble away, bleeding.

Cruel of him, I think, to leave his prey wounded this way. Inhumane.

But I leave him, praying he will not see the trail of blood I leave behind, this scarlet thread stretching across the ocean, connecting the dark frost of the garden maze to the brick and steel of lower Manhattan. I come back to the beginning, resuming my place at the head of an ourobourous with nowhere to go but down and back up again.

Nothing lasts forever. This blow he's dealt will end me sooner or later. I am not like those other girls, the ones who toss their hair and laugh and drink a memory away.

I've made these rules, governed myself by my own laws, played a game I'd constructed according to a childish fantasy.

And lost.

He has ruined me.

Bled me.

And I am cold again.

**+.+.+.+**

"New York," my father told me once, his face bearing the strain of erasing what I'd done off the spotless family name, "is a place to start over."

I cast a long shadow across my father's thoughts back then, his smile soured with names like Tyler Crowley and Jacob Black. A change of scenery is what you need, he told me. And so, New York.

I retreat yet again into this maze, this tangled mass of tall buildings and filthy cabs and faceless people. The sidewalk outside my old apartment is restless with phantoms of months past, but Billy still smiles when he sees me.

"Ms. Swan!" he calls. "It's good to see you again! You back in town for a little while?"

I shake my head. "Nothing permanent."

"That's too bad. Well, I'm glad you're back."

"Really?"

"Sure, I am. People around here — they don't know Socrates from a Sinatra song."

I smile in spite of myself. "It can't be that bad."

"It was. I've been sitting on one since you left."

"What is it?"

"'You can cut all the flowers, but you can't keep Spring from coming.'"

"That's Neruda."

"That's right," he marvels with a shake of his head. "Well, it's good to see you again, but you read _too_ much."

"Only too much Neruda. He's a favorite."

"Eh, he's alright. That's okay, though. You got anything?"

I think for a moment. "'Expectation is the root of all heartache.'"

He frowns. "Shakespeare?"

"Sharp as ever," I tell him, impressed.

"Alright, here's one more: 'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'"

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, I think, but do not say; my tongue suddenly feels heavy, unwieldy and stiff. I feel foolish and naked all at once, my mind awash with the fear that I have been tamed and abandoned.

"You need time?" Billy asks, seeing my expression. "I'll give you some. But remember the rules — don't go looking it up."

Of course, I manage to choke out, hurrying inside and away.

"Welcome back, Ms. Swan," he calls to my retreating back.

**+.+.+.+ **

The walls are silent now.

My apartment has been cleaned in my absence, but the furniture has not been moved, and the sunlight streams in just the same as it always has. It is enough to be the same; it is enough to feel like a tomb.

And so I spend my days moving listlessly through these beautiful rooms, touching and opening doors and cabinets, running fingers along the edges of bookshelves and balustrades.

Eventually, my muscles begin to scream with the inactivity of the indoors. I wonder what Laurent would say if he could see me now, living miles above the apple trees in the trappings of a Park Avenue Princess, a brat nursing a fantastic melancholy because somebody doesn't want her.

Maybe I will go back to the orchards, I think once or twice. But then, there must be a limit to how often I can be the penniless stray on Ilse's doorstep.

Housekeeping comes after six days, two small women shocked to find the apartment occupied again, muttering to each other in Spanish as they take in my limp hair, my blank eyes.

One of them begins to ask me about a crimson necktie she's found while cleaning and I snatch it away from her, running the silk through my fingers as I ignore the look the two women share when they think I do not see. I remember the large necktie organizer I'd seen at Edward's apartment, every pattern I once catalogued from afar now trapped in their cedar compartments. They seem less impressive now.

My father knows where I am now; he sends me a message through the building's concierge after my third day in the apartment, saying nothing significant but ending with a tersely-worded, "Call me immediately."

I do not know what he knows, or what he thinks, or what he wants. And so I ignore the message, casting it away with the rest of the world for a little while, keeping only the memories of the man who once showed me how to sail.

**+.+.+.+ **

Those first days chip away at me.

Skin pales, lines furrow.

Fingers press against a looking glass,

all of them pointed to the slight figure on the other side.

'You lost,' her eyes scream, twin chasms of accusation.

Yes, I tell her.

I lost.

I am lost.

_My head is full of fire_, Lorca wrote,

_and grief and my tongue_

_runs wild, pierced_

_with shards of glass._

I trace his words across my windowpane, my fingers silhouetted against the city.

**+.+.+.+ **

The spring continues to warm quickly, heat assaulting from above and below — waves up from the pavement, beams down from the sky. Hours and days bleed together as the city whispers around me, carrying the world along in an ever-surging tide of industry and errands and life.

Soon, all the smart New Yorkers will be in the Hamptons, the Cape or the Vineyard, leaving this place to stink of summer tourists and trash. But for now, the social season is winding down to its end, only a few more gatherings to go before the city's monied exodus begins.

As for me, the heat brings a new restlessness to my bones, and the quiet ghosts of the apartment begin to cling and scratch.

Sometimes, I stand in my closet doorway, staring at the assortment of dresses and shoes and think of slipping into something short, something tight, moving in an out of cabs in stilettos and into a crowded club, eyes darting from place to place within a crowd until something worth my time makes himself noticeable.

I think of leading him outside, of smiling as I palm an erection through a pair of jeans or tailored trousers, of digging my nails in and letting a stranger fuck me against an alley wall until I forget how to say the one name that weighs down my tongue, burns up my throat.

Soon, I tell myself. When this thread finally snaps, when the cavity in my chest closes, when I am no longer this pathetic satire of the walking wounded.

Until then, I begin to venture outside, my muscles remembering the art of manuevering within the city.

I walk in shadows cast by old industrial buildings, their carcasses hollowed long ago to accommodate young artists flocking to the Lower West Side. I walk past construction sites and old factories, cringing at dissonance wrought in old neighborhoods by encroaching modernity: a pair of golden arches superimposed over Neo-Renaissance architecture.

I walk for hours, struggling to find an old sense of ease or confidence. It was not so hard before — the city used to feel like an old playground. Now it is a foreign cave, walls echoing with the silence of a grief unspoken, a shapeless anger.

Edward Cullen's face is in each storefront, in the profile of each person I pass on the street. His perfect mouth mocks me in the sound of someone else's laughter.

Eventually, I crave the quiet and hurry along the pavement, each foot in a race with the other to get back to the anonymity of my silent walls.

I fight against the feeling of being watched, measured and found wanting. Every car window hides a pair of arrogant eyes, and every passerby can read the past as easily as if it were marked in ugly scars across my face. I am the rat on the street, the bum in the alley. I am every ugly reality of being alone.

**+.+.+.+ **

This is no longer a request, yesterday's message from my father read. Brunch, The Garden. Be downstairs tomorrow at 10:00 sharp.

I sigh, thinking of Ilse, of Laurent, and of the apple trees.

I think of scarlet threads, of burning the world to the ground so I can build it up again, carve a simpler place from the ruins of this one.

Still, I zip up one of my dresses, powder my nose and prepare to re-enter a world of pretty faces, of monotonous gatherings, of power plays and idle chatter and everything else my father loves about the city.

So this is what tame is, I muse acerbically, as light and as listless as the dead leaves of Laurent's orchard.

A black Towncar idles on the curb as I walk outside; Billy holds the door for me as I slide into the back.

In the seat opposite, my father is impeccably outfitted in one of his suits, the crisp lines of him making his figure appear as imposing as usual. I adjust my skirt as the car whispers along the busy city streets on its way to the Four Seasons.

"Thank you for coming," my father says evenly, as if this is routine. As if I hadn't escaped to the cold, earthy arms of an apple orchard for the better part of three months.

"I wasn't aware there was a choice."

He sighs; there is a world of fatigue in the sound. "There's always a choice."

I nod, staring out at the street.

**+.+.+.+**

The brunch in question is to benefit military veterans. My father gives a speech that ends with a toast, mentions how thankful he is for a country whose men and women fight for what matters most:

"Family," he announces to the crowded room. "Family is what really matters in the end."

Then he raises his glass in my direction and I nod, smile, docile at last beneath the weight of so many stares, the strike of camera flashes.

_Here's to you_, my mother whispers, and I think of Saint-Exupéry again.

_Where are the people?" resumed the little prince at last. "It's a little lonely in the desert…" _

"_It is lonely when you're among people, too," said the snake._

Later, the car is silent as we pull away from the curb in front of the hotel.

"I'm glad you came today," my father tells me, examining an invisible spot on his necktie. "People have asked about you. It was good for them to see us together again."

The ubiquitous people. Always asking, always talking.

"Good of them to notice I was gone," I reply.

If my father notices my sarcasm, he does not acknowledge it. "Everyone notices everything. Reputations rise and fall on perception, Isabella. Ours could be destroyed in a minute."

"Yours," I sigh dully.

"What was that?" he asks sharply.

"Yours," I repeat. "Your reputation."

A moment of silence, and then:

"Yes."

"Would it change anything?" I wonder aloud, trying to imagine a world in which the Kingmaker was forced to exist beyond a roulade of black and white, of straight lines and certainty and americana perfection.

"Things are different today than they were ten years ago," he answers grimly, his gaze fixed on something beyond his window. "The game has changed. It's always changing. Change is the only constant."

He looks at me, aged and sallow features surrounding tired eyes that have seen too much, their sharpness guarding a mind that has traded too long in unclean currencies. "It is change which makes absolutes so valuable. Remember that we exist to serve a greater good, Isabella."

The rest of the ride is silent.

In spite of the car's quiet, I am a collision of nerves, a perfect storm of contained fury. My stiletto'd foot wobbles unsteadily on the pavement as I climb out of the Towncar, nod at the morning doorman and tear my way through the door and into the elevator.

I claw at my hair as soon as the doors slide closed, ripping it out of its simple chignon, shedding sleekness and bobby pins.

_Change is the only constant_, my father's voice echoes in my head, and I am a beast now, panting and cursing, slamming the front door of my apartment, kicking off these goddamn shoes, throwing my clutch until I hear the satisfying crash of something as I make my way down the hallway.

I can change, too. I will change.

Still confined within the tailored lines of my dress, I pull out the bag that has sat in the corner, untouched since my flight back from London weeks ago. I dump its contents unceremoniously across the bed.

A black evening gown, rumpled and creased from weeks spent wadded into a ball in the corner of my bag. It reeks of stupidity, of evening frost, of Edward. Matching shoes.

Here is the outfit I wore when I fled my father's house and showed up on Ilse's doorstep. With it, a few additional articles of clothing accumulated in France.

A passport, a wallet containing the remainder of my wages from _Au Chien Pèlerin_.

Ilse's copy of Sajer's "The Forgotten Soldier."

An embroidered handkerchief.

Resolution settles on my shoulders like a mantle. The hole behind my lungs throbs with the echoes of its own chamber.

Enough of this dependence, this cancer of complacency.

Burn it all down,

cast away the old,

make room for something new,

something terrifying.

I take everything that reminds me of him, gathering it into an unruly bundle, dragging it to the living room in this place my father purchased, its cold and empty fireplace staring up at me like a gash on a dead body. I stuff everything inside, grab the candle lighter in the mantel vase and flick, flick, flick.

The flame catches the skirt of the evening gown first, licks its way up like a lover. It gains new life as it finds the crimson necktie.

My fingers worry the edge of the lighter as I watch, marking the cadence of my racing pulse.

_Remember before_, Athena taunts mercilessly, and I do.

But there is nowhere to go except back, or forward.

Back — to Ilse, to Laurent, to the unearthly escape of the countryside.

Forward — to the shadows, alone on a road I do not know.

The unknown: blistering in its intensity, hollow and infinite.

But it doesn't matter — I will bide my time, pay my dues in this purgatory of my father's world and emerge the better for it, become someone who does not mope and sulk over rejection like an adolescent girl.

The fire consumes everything as I watch.

And I do not think of Edward.

I do not even think his name.

**+.+.+.+**

"Antoine de Saint-Exupéry," I tell Billy weeks later, naming the author of the line he last gave me. He gives me a skeptical look.

"That took you awhile. Did you look it up?"

"No, it's— the quote is from a book I used to read when I was little."

He smiles. "It's a good story. I used to read it to my daughter."

"You have a daughter?"

"Cecily," he replies, but his smile dims as he says her name, and there is a corner of grief to his gaze. He is silent for a moment, his eyes are fixed on something in the distance when he continues, "She passed away."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, my words as limp and useless as ever.

Several seconds pass, and there is only silence and a sadness I can't touch. Then he blinks, catches himself and looks at me with nothing but kindness.

"Thank you," he says quietly. Then, clearing his throat: "Do you have something for me?"

"'Let us read,'" I answer, "'and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.'"

And Billy smiles again.

**+.+.+.+**

Again, a message from my father; this time, an invitation to The Met's production of _Turandot_.

Again, the Towncar.

Again, my father's sparse words and heavy silence.

Again, cold smiles on the faces of people I do not care to know.

Biding time, I remind myself, entering the lobby on my father's arm with a small smile, a stiff spine. Nothing is forever and when there is nowhere else to go, keeping the Kingmaker complacent is a small price to pay.

The bright colors of Chagall's _The Triumph of Music_ stare down at us as we make our way to the Belmont Room for pre-curtain cocktails, the violent colors and sharp contrasts leering down at the grey pallor that covers me. Every shade screams of the unstoppable present, of lifeblood and screaming and bursting with life now, now, now.

I look away and climb the carpeted stairs, feeling small and plain and pale. The constraints of my surroundings settle upon me like old chains, chafing my skin, stiffening my limbs into something slightly less than human. And yet, I'm not truly held in place by the plaster of my father's world. I am strong enough to leave.

_But where will you go?_ my mother asks smugly.

I ignore her, sipping a white russian while my father holds court during pre-curtain cocktails.

"It's a shame Cullen's leaving New York," a woman near me at the bar sighs to her friend. I freeze at the sound of his name. "Lauren was devastated when the news broke."

"She wasn't the only one," the woman next to her replies, her lips pursed with botox and disapproval. "Sarah's quite attached to him as well."

"Sarah Hammond? That's a lost cause."

"He's been spending an awful lot of time with Tanya Denault lately, from what I hear."

"Who told you that?"

"Tanya Denault."

Laughter. I still the light tremor that runs through my hands by cupping them tightly around my glass.

"Speaking of lost causes…."

"He may have his mother's last name, but he's a Masen. Tanya should know better."

"They all should."

More laughter. "_We_ all should."

Finishing my drink, I silently agree.

**+.+.+.+**

Giordani's voice soars above a sea of faces, Puccini's lyricsfilling the space around me, echoing in my ears.

_Tu pure, o, Principessa,_

_nella tua fredda stanza,_

_guardi le stelle_

_che tremano d'amore_

_e di speranza._

Stuck in the confines of my father's opera box, I am hot, irritable. Restless. I cannot be still.

The plush material of the seat brushes against my bare back and shoulders; no matter how I fidget, it does not cease to gall me.

Someone behind me sighs with annoyance.

"Be still," my father whispers sternly.

I grit my teeth, sitting up and away from the seat, bringing my opera glasses to my face to watch Giordani's Calàf bellow his aria from the midst of the stage, his bulky form surrounded by the tapestried palace garden decor of ancient Peking.

I shift in my seat again, the feeling of heat and raw nerves persisting, pricking, driving me mad. I scan the boxes across from us to see if anyone appears as restless as I feel. All I can see are the profiles of a rapt audience, their attentions fixed firmly on the stage.

Except.

There, directly opposite and one level above, in the line faces entranced by the music, one is unturned, meeting my gaze with a severe frown.

He is not looking through any glasses.

Nonetheless, I can feel his eyes burning into my skin,

twin fires beneath a tousle of penny-colored hair:

Edward.

**+.+.+.+**

_All'alba vincerò!_

_vincerò, vincerò!_

**+.+.+.+**

I do not look away.

My face burns with surprise, with anger. Thoughts clash, crash inside my skull in crimson and jagged edges, dismay and excitement and humiliation and rage.

He's found me, followed that brazen thread, throbbing and dripping and crimson with the life that has bled out a little more each moment. It tightens now, pulled taut and humming like a live wire at the sight of him.

Fuck him for staring across this space that lies between us, the void made with words and secrets and silences and his own precious pride. Fuck him for giving me this future, time stretching interminably away beneath the shadow of his absence. Fuck him for winning and walking away.

Applause erupts down below as the tenor onstage takes a bow, the last notes of _Nessun Dorma_ still suspended within the proscenium.

I shudder suddenly, shaken from my reverie by the crowd's cheers.

Across the hall, Edward is still staring, mouth locked into a tight, grim line.

Cold, I think.

Unbidden, the text from a sermon years before drifts into my consciousness, the echo of a minister's monotone:

_And the people cried out to the mountains and the rocks, saying 'Hide us! Shield us from his face…'_

"Pardon?" the woman beside me asks. I look at her for a long moment, realizing I've spoken aloud.

"I'm cold," I answer, pushing past her. "Excuse me."

**+.+.+.+**

_Straniero! Non tentar la fortuna!_

_Gli enigmi sono tre, la morte una!_

**+.+.+.+**

My feet hurry along the carpeted hall, keeping time to the quickness of my breath and I'm not sure exactly what I'm looking for. A drink to calm this ache, a bit of fresh air, a moment to remember that he is just one man, that change is constant, that there have been others, will be others…

An usher straightens as I approach, his offer of assistance curtailed by the wild look I shoot him as I pass.

I am almost to the staircase, its cantilevered frame descending to the Grand Tier and beyond, to the stones of the plaza outside. I pause, thinking of what comes next and I could leave now, pretend I am ill, or stop pretending and go, go, go—

But this moment of indecision has cost me, and the pulsing cadence that echoes in my head is no longer just my heartbeat, but footsteps approaching quickly from behind until there is a warmth against my back, a hand around my arm.

I think of wounded animals, of trails of blood and of a hunter finishing what he's started.

"Edward," I greet in a low voice.

"Isabella," Edward repies.

"Take your hand off of me."

"There are things to say."

From inside the theater, I can hear the soprano wailing of Princess Turandot, determined to remain untouched, unclaimed.

"You're wrong," I tell him. "Let go of me."

**+.+.+.+**

_E t'ho odiato per quella..._

_E per quella t'ho amato, tormentata e divisa_

_fra due terrori uguali:_

_vincerti o esser vinta..._

**+.+.+.+**

"What will you do if I don't?" he asks.

"I'll scream," I answer.

He ignores my warning, pulling, pushing, turning me quickly until I face him, moving me toward one of the small alcoves off the hallway.

"Don't," he tells me. "Don't scream."

I glare. "Why are you here?"

"_Turandot_ is Alice's favorite," he informs me tersely, his features tense, pulled into a scowl.

"Of course it is. Let go of me."

"I didn't expect to see you tonight," he says, eyes dropping down to what he can see of the rest of me. "You look… lovely."

"I don't have time for this," I tell him, twisting to be free of him, but his fingers only tighten. Exasperated, I push against him. "You sent me away," I remind him angrily.

"Yes," he nods. "I wanted you gone."

"Well, now the feeling is mutual."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"You said…" he lowers his voice. "You said that you wanted me. What does that mean?"

"Nothing at all," I retort haughtily.

"So," he muses, staring down at me tensely. "this is a woman scorned."

I open my mouth to scream, but the only sound that escapes is a fraction of a yelp before his hand covers my mouth.

"Stop it," he hisses, his scowling face too close too mine. "I'm trying to talk to you."

"You don't want _me_," I snap as he removes his hand. "I can't imagine there's much to talk about."

His eyes widen for a brief second.

"I don't want you," he repeats, mouth pursing around the words like a lemon drop, a child recoiling at the way the medicine tastes on his tongue.

My arm is still held fast. I school my anger into an injured simper.

"You're hurting me," I tell him softly, going limp in his grip for a brief second, my voice breaking in pain.

But he isn't swayed. "Oh, you're better than that," he chides.

Caught, I stiffen again. "I'm warning you—"

"You're always warning me," he retorts as I twist in his arms. "Fucking _hold still_."

"Why?" I sneer. "Are you going to keep me here until the curtain goes down?"

"Perhaps," he grinds out, backing me against the wall, caging me with his hands, his body. My arms immobilized, I jerk my leg up to knee him but he is faster, his leg pressing across both of mine. "Not so fast—"

"Fuck you," I spit.

"Fuck you back," he retorts. "Now listen close, because I'm sure as hell not going to say this again. I'm so fucking tired of fighting you."

"Then let me _go_—"

"I can't," he seethes. I freeze, tense as a wildcat and he laughs. It is not a happy sound. "Don't think I haven't tried."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've been through everything they could find on you — every page of every journal I could get, your shrink's notes — fuck if I haven't seen your high school report cards."

I recoil and he presses closer, his breath coming faster.

"I've looked through every crack, every nasty little crevice in your head trying to figure you out. I wanted to be disgusted by you. I wanted to find you repulsive. But it didn't happen. Nothing helped. Every time I think of you I'm either pissed off or hard."

My body is flush against him, breasts crushed against his ribs and I am panting, fighting for each quick breath but he doesn't care, presses against me tighter.

"You said I was a mistake," I remind him acidly, rage wrestling to subdue something that flutters foolishly behind my lungs.

"You are a mistake. You're the biggest goddamn mistake I'll ever make."

"No one's forcing you to make it."

"I know that. But I also know that I don't want things," he hisses. "I never have. Everything I've ever needed has been in arm's reach, always."

"So?"

"So, I don't want things, but you're a goddamn idiot if you think I don't want you. Of course I want you. I can't fucking sleep for wanting you. I'm _sick_ with it."

I stare up at him, every frame of every motion I have ever captured of him running in a clumsy, disjointed loop behind my eyes.

_Oh the bitten mouth, _Neruda once wrote,_ oh the kissed limbs,_

_oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies._

"I could hate you," I breathe. "I want to."

He looks down at me, any traces of anger fading from his expression, features now feigning impassivity but I can see the way his eyes change, pupils dilating as he stares at my mouth. "I know," he says quietly.

We stand there for several long moments, eyes locked in the dim light of the alcove, flesh and heat and short, sharp breaths.

I think of my father, his agitation for each passing minute my seat in his box remains empty, of the bridge I could burn once and for all.

"Just answer me this one question," Edward says quickly, catching the way I eye the door. "How does this end?"

It is an echo of the garden maze, words from weeks ago. But I still have no answer.

"It could end now," I reply, hating the uncertainty of my voice, of this moment.

"But does it?" he presses.

"I don't know. How could I?"

His gaze is unblinking, agitated. "Pretend," he insists.

"What?"

"I've given you something just now, told you things. So tell me something. Tell me anything."

His fingers have not loosened against my arms; I absently wonder how long his bruises will linger on my skin, where he will be when they finally fade.

"The first time I saw you," I tell him. "I didn't even know your name. But I dreamt of you."

"That's how this began," Edward rejoins in a low voice. "Tell me how it ends."

Tell me anything.

Foolish girl, I think. Foolish, stupid girl.

My lungs exhale a sigh, and it is a last rite, an exhausted doxology:

As it was in the beginning,

is now,

and ever shall be.

World without end, Amen.

We are the ouruboros, I want to tell him.

We are blades and bones.

We are the constant chase of the hunt,

the neverending pursuit of the predator,

the eternal retreat of the prey.

We are twin infernos. We are nuclear winters.

But we are, nonetheless.

Fall and we'll catch you, the jagged rocks cry.

So I do, releasing the words and watching as they escape the cage of my lips like twin birds of prey:

"It won't."

Flames lick the light in his eyes and those stellar remnants, their heat thins this thread, nips at the heels of my pulse until it runs faster, faster, faster, beating the bones of my ribs like a bodhrán drum.

"Promise," he breathes.

But I cannot.

And so my reply is swift, quiet: "Kiss me."

He frowns, wanting words again, his gaze heavy on me as I close my eyes, tilt my face up, a white queen flower facing the sun.

Several breathless moments pass before he leans in, lightly presses his lips to mine.

It is the gentlest kiss he has ever given to me, and there is heat everywhere we touch but here, where he covers my mouth with a tenderness that makes me shudder and I am flying, falling, crashing until I am lying with my lover, limp across cold and bloodstained stones.

Ammut, Athena — you fools, I think. You will never touch him. You will never have him.

But my heart is surrounded by his fingers, the elegant and pale parentheses of its beat.

It is death to need this much. It is madness.

_Crazy, crazy, crazy_.

The luckiest, unlucky passionate one.

And the thought is my own death knell, the toll of a coming freedom.

**+.+.+.+**

_E vinta son... Ah! Vinta,_

_più che dall'alta prova,_

_da questa febbre che mi vien da te!_

**+.+.+.+**

The grand choruses of the finale sound, a crowd of performers acclaiming the two lovers as Turandot surrenders to her Calàf.

As the curtain falls, two lone figures burst through the tall glass doors at the front of the opera house, a man and a woman dashing across the travertine tiles of the vacant plaza and down the steps to Columbus Avenue.

Inside, the principals take their first bows, cheers echoing through hall.

"Did she tell you where she was going?" Charles Swan asks someone in his party, raising his voice to be heard above the applause.

"She only said she was cold," the befuddled woman replies.

Bravo! the audience cries, clapping, exclaiming. Encore!

**+.+.+.+**

_You're mad_, my mother calls, her spectre watching from behind the starburst chandeliers of the opera house as Edward hails us a cab.

But I do not reply.

Because of course she's right.

I am mad.

Stark, barking mad.

Mad enough to strip myself of the world and its expectations.

Mad enough to be free.

Mad enough to keep him.

I'm mad, but I'm not alone.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

Because everyone worships something.

Everyone eats, drinks, dies—

Everyone does.

And there's only one difference between me

and Them:

I've already picked my poison.

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**FIN.**

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**Epilogue to follow soon.**

**Also, here are translations of Italian lyrics from Turandot, used in a few of the section breaks.**

I. _At dawn, I will win! I will win! I will win!_

II._ Stranger! Do not tempt Fortune! The riddles are three, Death is one._

III. _Tormented - torn between two terrible choices: To defeat you, or to be defeated. And now, I am conquered. Conquered not from the trials, but from this fever that comes to me from you._


	28. Epilogue

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

I made the wall of shadow draw back,

beyond desire and act, I walked on.

…Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,

oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force

in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.

And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,

and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

_from "Song of Despair"_

(Pablo Neruda)

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

Once upon a time, arms reached up from the sea,

fingers grasping wet and human flesh

pulling down, down, down

until limbs are caught,

surrendered to tendrils of the deep

"I'm going to tell you a story," the selkie whispers

into the sailor's ear.

**+.+.+.+**

Article in Washington Post Business section (April 25, 20-)

_Masen Global Enterprises (MGE) named its CEO's son as the company's new Chief Operating Officer as the Manhattan-based company shifts its focus to commercial development abroad._

_Edward Cullen will replace Stephen Hansen effective immediately, assuming control of MGE's European headquarters in Paris amid "a broader consolidation of the company's worldwide sales and business development activities," a spokesman for MGE said today._

_Cullen "has a deep understanding of both US and European markets that will be invaluable as we position our effort to develop quality, energy-efficient properties." _

_In addition to the new position, Cullen will maintain his role as president and co-fund manager for Cullen Consulting, LLP, the investment firm started by his great-grandfather in 1921. The firm was ranked as the world's sixth-largest hedge fund with $35.8 billion in investor assets under management and a 1.22 percent stake in Wells Fargo._

"_I look forward to further acquainting myself with the company started by my father," Cullen said in a statement released by his office this week. "We're excited about what the future has in store."_

**+.+.+.+**

The first days are strange.

Edward keeps me close to him, eyes distant and burning with the self-recrimination of an addict as he kisses, takes, pulls me to him in the middle of the night.

I am a silent but equal partner, letting him clutch me, fuck me, shudder and groan against me when I come apart around him. The city surrounds us, serenades us with the comforting hum of its bustle, distant beneath us in Edward's ivory tower as we fall into a boneless sleep.

And when the morning light encroaches, bleaching the cold room even cooler, Edward's first waking expression is one of surprise as he finds me, still in his bed.

"You're still here," he remarks and I touch his face, erasing every trace of surprise.

"Are you happy?" I ask him, and his smile is my answer.

**+.+.+.+**

There is a struggle sometimes,

arms and legs battling the weight of a sea

She strokes his face, cooing

secrets, water lullabies —

anything to make him remember

the monotony of the old land,

the bondage of his native soil,

and the promise of the sea that he's given her.

**+.+.+.+**

Excerpt from The New Yorker magazine's profile on Charles Swan

_Swan has many times looked people in the eye and stoutly denied the Kingmaker mythology. On the other hand, it doesn't seem to torment him that he's the center of attention and speculation, or that he's thought of as all-powerful. Swan is complicated. His usual mode is one of irony — sometimes there seems to be a twinkle in his eye as he professes outrage over the unfair attribution of enormous influence to him. _

_His obvious intellect isn't what's been in the news lately, however. Rumors of private discord within the Swan family have swirled since the sudden death of Renee Higginbotham Swan three years ago. To Washington insiders, the reported estrangement currently between Swan from his daughter Isabella is indicative that the family life Swan touted to be "the American dream" was not all apple pies and picnics. _

_For any other political heavyweight, this would be less of a revelation and more of a given. But in the case of the Kingmaker, his credibility seems to hinge on more than just instinct and media savvy — it is entwined with the life, and family, that he attempts to idealize in the American consciousness: the devoted husband and father, the supportive wife, the beautiful child. _

_In recent years, Swan has become visibly agitated when asked about his family. "It's nobody's damn business," he told a reporter in the months following his wife's passing. But today, he is the very picture of professionalism._

"_We're doing just fine," he assures me, his eyes drifting to a dated portrait of the family on his desk. "Just fine."_

**+.+.+.+**

Our first months in Paris are heady things, a whirlwind of possession and decadence and freedom.

We are star-cross'd lovers, unable to believe our luck — fondling, kissing, fucking on every surface like teenagers in the first throes of puberty. We are uncontrollable, ravenous.

He spends hours inside of me, sweating and groaning and cursing as he comes, reveling in the instincts of a territorial beast as he paints my walls white.

"Do you feel that?" he asks me often, his breath hot on my neck as his fingers prod gently between my legs, opening me where he was only moments before. "You're mine."

I grant him these moments, nodding my assent and later marking him in turn, scoring flesh with teeth and nails until I can trace my touch in the map of his skin.

It is an odd partnership, joining together in the violent abandon of fucking, other times circling each other like wary animals, learning the other with the sharp eye of an adversary.

I want to know every part of him with a fervor that scares me.

**+.+.+.+**

But every bubble bursts.

And although there is desire,

although there is passion, possession,

there is not,

and never will be,

any such thing as a fairy tale.

**+.+.+.+**

"Isabella."

Knocking.

Go away, I mutter, lips against wet.

"Bella, open this door."

Slowly, I open my eyes to stagnant water still against the sides of the tub, encasing the pale of my naked limbs. The knocking sounds again against the bathroom door.

"Isabella."

I stand on unsteady legs, water sluicing across skin, rivulets traversing the length of my back.

Step out and reach down, fingers closing again around the scrap of black silk on the floor, shoving it into the pocket of the terrycloth robe I wrap around myself.

Edward pounds against the door and I unlock the latch to face him.

"You've been in there for hours," he tells me, a question unasked in his eyes.

I was only thinking, mulling over this creature I've become.

But I do not tell him that.

"Are we happy?" I ask, dripping wet on the carpet.

**+.+.+.+**

"Look at the man behind me," Edward tells me quietly as he hands me my glass of wine. "The one with the dark-rimmed glasses."

I comply, looking beyond him, scanning the party to find the man in question.

There he is — smiling at something that the blonde on his arm just whispered in his ear. He is a scrawny gentleman, those long arms in his tuxedo giving him every appearance of a praying mantis at a funeral.

"I see him," I reply, watching.

"That's Nicolas Belland."

"Carlisle's friend?"

"His spy," Edward corrects, his mouth set in annoyance. "My father's keeping tabs on me."

I keep staring at Belland; after several moments, we make eye contact as he tries to give us an inconspicuous glance. I smile at the man, raising my glass in salute.

He colors slightly, looking away. But we are still in his eyeline.

"What are you doing?" Edward asks me, eyebrows arched in amusement as I set down my wineglass. I put my hands on his lapels and pull him closer.

"Giving Nicolas something to take home to daddy," I answer, a breath away from his lips.

And I kiss him until Nicolas rolls his eyes, turning his attention to someone else.

"What would I do without you?" Edward laughs softly.

I smile.

**+.+.+.+**

We are one of them, but not.

"There's something poisonous about you," Alice has told me earlier, her lips against my ear as if we are sharing secrets. "Something monstrous."

"Sticks and stones," I answer with a smile, and she steps back.

"That's funny. You know what else is funny?" she lowers her voice. "A Swan chasing a Masen. The apple hasn't fallen far, has it?"

"I believe he's a Cullen," I reply sweetly.

I tell Edward this as we slide into the car at the end of one his father's fundraisers and he sighs, taking my hand in his and staring straight ahead.

Sometimes, it is easy to forget why we cling to one another.

**+.+.+.+**

Time passes.

We are partners, bound by a pull we do not understand and the hunger to feel, even when there is only pain.

But Edward surprises me sometimes, a startling dichotomy of passion and passivity.

"What do you think?" he asks me one evening as we walk home from dinner. I frown, confused until I see that we have stopped in front of a jewelry store's plate glass window.

I remember my mother's oval diamond, the glimmer of it next to the gold band that never came off. I think of my father, alone in his home in the District.

I think of inevitability, of the never-ending curve of the ouroboros.

And I tell him yes.

**+.+.+.+**

"I'm leaving," I tell him one afternoon, cold and angry and glaring because I am tired of this life, the monotony of it all, the cage of money that always surrounds me.

But Edward only smiles grimly as he sits at the piano, his fingers gently playing a slow and somber melody.

And so I go, slamming the door behind me. I hail a cab to the airport.

When I return hours later, the apartment is dark and he is lying, fully dressed, on his bed. His chest rises and falls evenly beneath the silk of his necktie.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the vanity mirror: white and drawn with eyes large and dark, the fierce caves of the shipwrecked. I look lost, deserted as the wharves at dawn.

Long moments pass before I move to the bedside, lifting a hand to sweep through the russet mess of his hair, now tinged with hints of gray. Too quick for me to register the movement, his hand circles my wrist.

I meet his gaze, and I cannot read it.

"You're back," he says evenly.

"Yes."

"It's been six hours."

"Yes."

He pulls me down until I relent, straddling his hips, reclining across his chest. My face is turned toward him, lips pressed against the column of his neck as he swallows.

"I won't leave again," I whisper.

And we sleep, our bodies separated only by the silk of my dress, the starch of his shirt.

**+.+.+.+**

We are married by a French clerk, and I wear red dress.

That night, he kisses my hands, sucks my fingers into his mouth, bites down lightly on my ring. I laugh at the delight in his eyes as he examines the stone.

"I love you," he later groans into my neck as I come around him. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

**+.+.+.+**

Days and weeks and months gather, and then they are years.

I lie awake in bed tonight, still and quiet as Edward shuts the bedroom door. He is back, his footsteps a parenthesis to the three weeks he has spent working in New York.

Will he wake me? I wonder. The last several weeks have been filled only with brief, terse conversations because he is busy, and I am cold.

Moments later, fingers roam restless across the curve of my back.

He moves his lips over my shoulders, down my back as his hands tug, tug, tug again at my nightgown until it is pooled at my waist.

I do not understand what he says at first, caught in the surprise of his touch until I finally hear it, words falling from his mouth without thought.

Hungry for you, he says against my skin. I've been so hungry for you.

He is still fully clothed as he climbs onto the bed, spreading my legs and lifting my hips, his fingers hurriedly seeking my wetness before freeing himself from the confines of his trousers. I feel the warm metal of his wedding ring as he holds onto my hips, impaling me, uttering a curse as I cry out, but the silk drag of his black tie against my shoulders is nothing compared to the sting of him as he bucks against me.

His mouth is on my neck as he comes in a series of violent, uncoordinated thrusts and a desperate-sounding cry against my skin.

We are both panting, sweaty and limp. He pulls away and out, collapsing beside me on the bed.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I missed you."

"Are we happy?" I ask him, watching the silhouette of his profile.

"Of course," he replies, and I pull back to look at his face, trace my fingers along the lines of his lips as I smile, pretending to believe him.

**+.+.+.+**

"Mrs. Cullen?"

I look up from my book to find a young man standing at my table. I come here to this café often, its quiet service and proximity to our home ideal for reading, for thinking.

"Yes?"

"Garrett Springer," he says, offering me his hand. He is American, young and handsome and well-dressed, and his hand lingers around mine a moment too long. "I work for your husband."

"Of course," I rejoin politely. "Would you like to sit?"

"Thank you. What are you reading?"

"Akhmatova."

"He any good?"

"She's quite good."

"Ah. Poetry?"

"Yes."

"So you like poetry… Isabella?"

I sit back, assessing him evenly. He looks ill at ease for a moment, staring at my face, my neck, my breasts.

I smirk; I am closer to forty than he is too thirty, and he is such a transparent, awkward thing.

"Did you need something from me, Garrett?" I ask him coolly.

"I… I saw you and thought—"

"Thought you'd say hello?" I interrupt.

"Yes."

"Well then, hello. Thank you for stopping by."

Understanding the dismissal, he stands. "Goodbye, Mrs. Cullen."

"Goodbye, Garrett."

He walks away before turning back quickly, back at the table in a few quick strides. Before anything can be said, he takes my hand from its place on the table, lifting it to his lips.

"Goodbye," he mutters again, hurrying away.

I smile and return to my book.

But it is not over.

"You went to the café today?" Edward asks over dinner.

"I took a volume of Akhmatova and disappeared for a little while."

When there is no reply, I look up from my wine and sigh.

His jealousy has become as refined and as sleek as its master, the hot blade of passion tempered by time and age into something sharper and more dangerous. I have stopped questioning how he knows who I see, what I do. There is nothing to hide anymore.

But now, a young man's lips have rested on my hand and I know that I will feel the sting of Edward's pique, renew my allegiance to him in the guttural groans that still claw their way out of my throat as he fucks me.

It is not me he is angry with. He hates only himself and the men he thinks he should be.

"You love me, don't you?" he asks that night, eyes as sharp as ever, his still-boyish mouth soft in a vulnerable pout.

"Silly man," I reply with a smirk, running fingers across his forehead, through hair that has not lost its wayward tousle. I pull him down for a kiss, but he resists.

"Tell me," he insists.

I think of his face, the beautiful twist of his features as he comes, the deceptively calm set of them as he watches me dance with younger men.

He misinterprets my pause for reticence, his frown deepening. "Say it, out loud," he presses.

So I do.

**+.+.+.+**

Article published in Business section of The New York Post (February 12, 20-)

_The father-son business team of Carlisle Masen and Edward Cullen has done a good job of projecting unity throughout Masen's much-publicized legal woes, but behind the scenes there's a growing tension between them, sources tell the Post. Edward Cullen became a powerful figure by heading the US division of MGE, the real estate development firm founded by his father over thirty-five years ago. _

_Among the main sources of tension: Cullen's insistence that he maintain his position as chairman of the board at Cullen Associates, LP, the firm established in 1952 by Liam Cullen, father of former CA president Elizabeth Cullen, and grandfather of the current chairman. Masen has reportedly asked his son to hand control of the firm to the company's board of directors - a demand which Cullen may be loathe to accommodate, given his father's recent troubles with the Federal Housing Administration._

"_Our only interest is ensuring that all developers comply with building regulations so that buyers can be guaranteed safe housing," FHA spokesman Brian Sullivan told reporters. "So far, MGE has not been forthcoming with evidence that they've attempted to meet these regulations."_

"_Edward Cullen is his own man," said an anonymous employee from MGE's headquarters. "He doesn't see the point of giving up his birthright with a successful consulting firm in order to go down with a possibly-sinking ship."_

_Sources say that Masen and Cullen have begun communicating exclusively through proxies, although MGE's regulatory woes in the U.S. are only the tip of the iceberg in the familial drama. Last year, Cullen's elopement with Isabella Swan, daughter of uber-politico Charles Swan, reportedly caused further tension inside the Masen-Cullen camps._

_When reporters asked about his new daughter-in-law after news of the wedding broke, Carlisle Masen himself was less than diplomatic. _

"_She's crazy," he told reporters. He later apologized, citing personal stress and fatigue as reasons for the outburst. _

_Nonetheless, these tensions have reportedly raised doubts about Masen's successor at MGE — as daughter Alice, unscathed by negative publicity or surprise weddings, jockeys in the background, the question lingers as to whether MGE can survive at all. _

_Both Masen and Cullen, through representatives, declined interview requests._

**+.+.+.+**

I am not unhappy.

There are moments of ecstasy, of excitement. There are days when I cannot believe he is mine.

But the world does not exist to keep us happy.

There are endless social functions, hours of monotonous conversation heralded by the zipper of a designer gown, Edward's fingers brushing lightly on the back of my neck as he tells me I look beautiful.

I am smiling now, nodding at the words spilling out of the woman in front of me like I am interested, captivated by her ceaseless drivel—

"Is that Rosalie McCarty?" she asks suddenly, looking behind me.

I turn to follow her gaze, spotting the object of her interest — the statuesque blonde beauty now speaking to my husband.

Her face stirs a memory: the young woman at the Bootlegger's Ball all those years ago.

"Is the food that good?" I'd asked her then, curious as to why she attended so many functions when she was forced into the indignity of purchasing a ticket.

"No," she'd replied. "But the fishing is."

Judging by her gown, her perfectly preserved face and figure, it seems she has landed a keeper.

Edward laughs at something she says, his eyes drifting down to the cut of her décolletage. I do not blame him — she is stunning.

I sip my wine and watch, every inch my mother's daughter.

**+.+.+.+**

"Are we happy?" he asks me.

It is the question that echoes through every touch and look and word.

I look at him now, handsome features furrowed by age and work. That hair, once the color of a burnished penny, graying more every year.

"I am happy," I answer. "Are you?"

He nods, kisses my hand.

And I believe him.

**+.+.+.+**

This will end eventually, no matter what I promised Edward all those years ago.

Breath will leave him, or me.

Time will still a heartbeat,

and one of us will roam through the last years like a lost memory.

That is the way of it – old worlds are constantly passing before us as new ones come to be.

Mine is no different. But for now, I have him, and keep him.

And the ghosts of old goddesses grow fainter.

**+.+.+.+**

_**Transcript taken from NPR's "All Things Considered" (October 23, 20-)**_

_Charles Swan, the man many considered to be the one of the most influential voices in conservative politics, died Wednesday morning at the age of 61. _

_Paul Strickland, Swan's chief of staff and longtime confidante, said the man known as "the Kingmaker" died in his Georgetown, Maryland home from complications related to heart disease. He is survived by his only daughter, Isabella Swan Cullen._

_As a young man, Swan parlayed his anger at the secularization of American society into organizing rallies while president of the College Republicans at Dartmouth, and publishing several sharp-tongued diatribes against the evils of liberalism throughout the 1960s-70s. His influence continued to grow as he involved himself in the grooming of young politicians and coordinating more successful politician campaigns than any other figure in US history._

_Swan also championed social values rooted in Christian traditions — and against the regulation of business and the economy. _

_Above all, Strickland remembers, Charles Swan sought to make conservatism a force to be reckoned with._

_Over the past several years, as his health declined and as he mourned the death of his wife, Swan's life became much tougher. Strickland paraphrased Shakespeare in thinking about the conservative titan's life and death._

"_I released statement via e-mail this morning to the news outlets," he said. "And I found myself unable to resist quoting a line from Hamlet: _

'_Take him for all he was worth, Horatio. He was a man, and I shall not look on his like again.'"_

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**

**And there you have it: years crammed into one last hurrah. I've been neurotically worried about every single update except these last two. I am happy with them, and that will have to be good enough.**

**Thank you, everyone, for your patience. I hope it was worth it.**

**Thank you, Myg, for making me finish this. Your brain is a wonderland.**

**Thank you, fandom, for being big enough to indulge so many of us and our writing hobbies.**

**And finally, thank you, thank you, thank you to the readers and reviewers. You've all been wonderful and fun and kind, and I hope you've been sufficiently entertained.**

**Love,**

**Hollelujah**

**+.+.+.++.+.+.+**


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